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

by Katy Rose Pool

  “Did you really find the Chalice?” he asked.

  She looked at him sharply. “How do you know about that?”

  “Because I’m looking for it, too,” he replied. “That’s how I found you. I heard that the Pale Hand had come to Behezda. I did some asking around. Eventually heard you’d been captured by the City Watch. And when I talked to the person who turned you in . . .”

  “Shara.”

  “Took a little persuading, but eventually she told me everything. How you had tracked down the Chalice. Killed the Daughters of Mercy for it.”

  “Why are you looking for it?” she asked, suspicion sharpening her tone.

  “The same reason you were,” he replied steadily. “Beru found me after you—after. There’s some sort of . . . connection between us. Because of what you did. It restored her health for a little while. But it’s not enough, so I left her and came here to try to find the Chalice. She’s dying, Ephyra.”

  “What do you mean you left her?” she demanded. “Where?”

  “Somewhere safe,” Hector replied. “Somewhere no one could find her.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a healer,” Hector said. “He found us in the desert after the Daughters left us there. He took us to his oasis.”

  Ephyra’s mind went white with fear. The blood drained from her face. All she could think about was her father’s letter to Badis. We found him out in the desert, in an oasis. We didn’t know who he was, then.

  “Hector,” she said, looking up to meet his eyes. “You left my sister with the Necromancer King.”

  47

  BERU

  THE NECROMANCER KING CURLED A HAND AROUND BERU’S ARM, DRAWING esha from her. Before he had turned her into his own personal energy source, she’d only ever had esha transferred into her. This felt very different—like being plunged into an ice bath. She was left cold and shaking afterward.

  “Don’t worry,” the Necromancer King said, gently rolling her sleeve back down. “This is the last time.”

  Ephyra had said something similar to Beru once, after she’d taken the life of a priest to heal her. It hadn’t been true then, either.

  The Necromancer King stood in one smooth motion. He looked stronger than he had at the oasis, more robust. He was almost glowing. Beru, by contrast, was drawn and pallid. He had filled her with the esha of an entire oasis. An influx of that much esha, he told Beru, would have dire effects on anyone else. But not on her.

  Revenants, he’d told her, were like a bottomless well. They could suck up any esha they were given. The Necromancer King was carefully siphoning off the font of esha he’d put in her. Unless he replenished the esha soon, he would suck her dry.

  It had been eight days since they’d left the oasis, and they’d been searching Behezda for the Chalice ever since. The Necromancer King had said back in the oasis that it had been “reawakened” for the first time in nearly five hundred years. And over the days that followed, he’d felt it being used again and again. But then suddenly, it had stopped.

  “Come,” the Necromancer King said. “I feel another echo. This one is more recent than the others.”

  The Necromancer King had dragged Beru all over the city, behind temples and in dark alleyways where he said he could feel echoes of the Chalice. The echoes told him the person wielding the Chalice had used it only to take esha—never to heal, or to resurrect. And evidently they’d taken enough esha to kill, which meant there were half a dozen dead bodies out there marked by a pale handprint.

  It didn’t mean it was Ephyra. With the Chalice, anyone with the Grace of Blood could become powerful enough to kill. But in the pit of Beru’s gut, she knew it wasn’t someone else. She knew the Pale Hand was back.

  Guilt clawed at her chest. She’d left Ephyra because she thought it was the only thing that would keep her from killing. But what if it had been a mistake? What had Ephyra become without Beru there to stop her?

  The Necromancer King led her through the narrow streets of Behezda and finally stopped in an alleyway and closed his eyes, humming softly.

  “This one is less than a week old,” the Necromancer King said. “The echoes here are different. Stronger. Almost . . .” He paused, as if listening. “It’s near.”

  Dread pitted in Beru’s stomach as the Necromancer King led them deeper into the heart of the city. All she could see when she closed her eyes was Ephyra’s shattered expression when Beru had walked away from her in Medea.

  She couldn’t stand the thought of facing her again. But still she let the Necromancer King lead her on. If Ephyra was still out there, still killing, it was Beru’s responsibility.

  They stopped when they reached the edge of the river. A row of buildings lined it, crumbling and dingy with age.

  The Necromancer King stepped up to one of the doors and grasped the handle, pushing it open.

  “Who’s there?” a voice called from within.

  Beru blinked into the dimness of the room. A man stood inside, dressed in trim, Endarrion-style clothing. Ephyra was nowhere in sight.

  The Necromancer King strode forward and Beru sucked in a breath, following.

  “Don’t come any closer,” the man warned, backing up against a table.

  “You have something of mine,” the Necromancer King replied.

  The man’s golden gaze swept over the two of them, calculating. “Who are you?”

  “Where’s Ephyra?” Beru asked. Fear caught in her throat. “What did you do to my sister?”

  His eyes widened. “You’re her. The sister. The Daughters of Mercy said you were dead.”

  Beru froze. Ephyra wouldn’t trust just anyone with knowledge about Beru. Who exactly was this man?

  “How do you know Ephyra?” Beru demanded, stepping toward him. “What happened to her?”

  “Now, Beru,” the Necromancer King said fondly, patting her arm. “You know we don’t have time for this. We’re here for the Chalice, remember?”

  “Did the Hierophant send you?” the man demanded.

  The Necromancer King tilted his head inquisitively. “The Hierophant?”

  “What do you want with the Chalice?” the man asked.

  “No one sent me,” the Necromancer King replied. “I want the Chalice for myself. And I would like it now, if you please.”

  “Don’t,” Beru said before she could stop herself. She felt their eyes on her. “Don’t give it to him. I know this sounds impossible, but he’s the Necromancer King.”

  The Necromancer King flicked his gaze back to the goldeneyed man. “She’s right,” he said brightly. “Which must make you wonder—do you really want to stand between me and what I want?”

  No one moved for the length of a heartbeat. Then slowly, the golden-eyed man reached down and drew something out of the bag at his feet. A silver chalice.

  He turned it over in his hand. “This? Is this what you’re looking for?”

  Beru tensed at the sight of it, but the Necromancer King smiled.

  “Perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement,” the man went on. “See, the Hierophant wants this, too. And he’s going to be pretty mad when he realizes I’ve given it to someone else. So how about this—I’ll hand over the Chalice willingly, and in exchange you kill the Hierophant.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “No,” Beru gasped as the Necromancer King approached the man.

  The Necromancer King closed his long fingers around the stem of the Chalice. He shut his eyes and the Chalice seemed to glow for a moment in his hand.

  “You have no idea what you’ve done,” Beru said.

  The golden-eyed man looked at her. “Your sister,” he said finally. “If you do find her. Try not to judge her too harshly.”

  Something twisted in Beru’s chest. This man did know Ephyra.

  Beru stepped toward him, grabbing him firmly by the elbow. “Where is she?”

  He shook her off. “Trust me. You’re both better off.” He turned to the Necromancer Kin
g. “Now, how about making good on our deal? Until the Hierophant is dead, I’ve got a target on my back.”

  The Necromancer King looked at the man like he was an especially interesting insect. “That sounds quite terrible.”

  “Are you—messing with me?” the man said unsurely. “You are going to do it, right?”

  “Of course,” the Necromancer King replied. “A deal is, as they say, a deal.”

  Beru stood there as the Necromancer King brushed past her.

  “Come, Beru,” he said over his shoulder.

  Beru no longer knew if she could possibly stop him. But she was responsible for this, for him. It was because of her that he’d been let out of his cage. It seemed no matter what Beru did, she was destined to cause death and destruction. But this time, she wouldn’t run from it.

  She cast one last look at the golden-eyed man and then followed the Necromancer King.

  48

  HASSAN

  THE HIEROPHANT HAD KEPT HASSAN CONFINED THROUGHOUT THEIR JOURNEY, which had taken them across the Pelagos and over the desert terrain to the City of Mercy. Now in Behezda, Hassan was kept in a small, dark room within a cave that appeared to house some sort of long-abandoned prisoner’s work camp. A Witness was posted outside Hassan’s room every moment of the day.

  He had not actually seen the Hierophant himself since they’d left Nazirah, nor did he know what had happened to Arash. The only thing he did know for sure was that if there was any hope of stopping the Hierophant, he had to escape.

  On the second day, a Witness entered with a bowl of soup on a tray.

  “I won’t eat this,” Hassan said, crossing his arms and attempting to look the part of a petulant, spoiled prince. He made a show of shoving the tray away from him.

  The Witness looked irritated.

  “How do I know you haven’t poisoned it?” Hassan demanded. “You taste it first.”

  The Witness heaved out a sigh and grabbed the spoon. He lifted it to his mouth and tipped it in.

  And promptly dropped to the floor.

  Paralytic powder. Zareen had gifted some to Hassan weeks ago, thinking it might come in handy at some point.

  She’d been right.

  After a few moments of terrified fumbling, Hassan slipped out of the room draped in the paralyzed Witness’s robes. Listening for approaching footsteps, he crept down the darkened hallway until he reached an open door, firelight and low voices flickering through.

  Hassan crept closer. He caught a glimpse inside, and immediately flattened himself against the door, heart hammering. Reaching inside one of his pockets, he withdrew a small spyglass, pilfered from the Library’s collection of his father’s old artefacts. He pressed it against the wall and looked inside, seeing the room as if through a window.

  The Hierophant stood by the fireplace, surrounded by about a dozen Witnesses, one of whom was strangely covered head to toe, his face masked by cloth.

  “The Chalice has at last been procured,” the Hierophant said in his gentle voice. “I need one of you to meet with Illya Aliyev.”

  “He has the Chalice?” the masked Witness said in disbelief.

  “Yes,” the Hierophant said. “And he has made certain . . . demands of me in return for it. I am sending three of you to retrieve it from him.”

  Hassan’s suspicion was correct. The Hierophant didn’t just want the Crown—he was after all of the Relics. And if what the scroll said was true, he wanted to use them to unlock an ancient power.

  “I will go,” the masked Witness declared. “I will make Illya Aliyev fear your wrath and regret his own selfish deceit. He has given nothing to our cause. His loyalty is thin and sways with the lightest breeze.”

  “You will go nowhere,” the Hierophant replied. “You shall remain here with me, to protect the Crown. Do not forget that you have failed me, not once, but twice. I expected better from you when I sent you to clean up Aliyev’s mistakes.”

  The masked Witness stiffened. “Immaculate One, if you would just give me one more chance to prove myself—you know what I have given to this cause.”

  “Enough,” the Hierophant said, the slightest edge to his voice, although he hadn’t raised it. “Do you seek to question my judgment?”

  The masked Witness fell to one knee. “No, of course not, Immaculate One. Never. I—I’ll stay here, as you ordered.”

  The Hierophant sighed and looked away from the masked Witness. “You three. Go meet with Aliyev and bring the Chalice to the Red Gate. Here is the message he sent, and the address where you will find him.”

  The Witness at the Hierophant’s elbow moved forward, holding out a folded piece of parchment. One of the other three Witnesses tasked with this mission stepped forward to receive it.

  “You all have your orders,” the Hierophant said, surveying his followers. “See it done.”

  As the Hierophant dismissed the Witnesses, Hassan slipped the spyglass back into his pocket and darted down the hall. He ducked into an alcove and waited for a few of the Witnesses to pass him. To his right, a low table displayed candlesticks of various heights. Hassan grabbed one of them, slipping it into the sleeve of his robe, and then melted into the group of Witnesses. He kept his sight on the three tasked with the Chalice’s retrieval, hurrying through the cave’s labyrinthine corridors after them.

  49

  ANTON

  “ WE’RE CLOSE.”

  Anton tugged on Jude’s sleeve, reeling him back. They faced a row of dilapidated buildings at the edge of the murky river that cut through the center of the city. The feeling of Illya’s esha scraped over him. It was ice, it was darkness, it was fear.

  “He’s in there,” Anton said, pointing at one of the buildings.

  Jude turned toward him, his brow furrowed in concern. Anton was accustomed to seeing the expression, but this time he didn’t need to fight the urge to touch his thumb to Jude’s temple. “Maybe I should go in alone. Last time you saw your brother, you didn’t exactly come out unscathed.”

  The offer was tempting. Anton still sometimes saw Illya’s laughing face in his nightmares. But the idea of Jude going alone, when they’d come so far together, was enough to make Anton refuse. “I’ll be fine, Jude. I’ll be with you.”

  On impulse, he leaned in to press their lips together. When he opened his eyes, Jude looked as though Anton had smacked him over the back of the head. The expression made something warm unfurl in Anton’s chest.

  Taking a breath, Anton stepped up to the entrance. Beside him, he could feel Jude shift into fighting stance, his muscles drawing taut, his eyes and ears focused and searching, his breath heightened but steady. Illya’s esha rattled in Anton’s ears.

  Anton pushed open the door. Before he could take a step, Jude leapt forward.

  There was a soft exhalation and a thump as Jude shoved Illya against the wall.

  Illya looked at Anton, looked at Jude, and raised his hands in surrender. His expression was utterly calm.

  “Well,” he said blandly. “This is a surprise, brother.”

  “No,” Jude said, his gaze hard. “You don’t talk to him. You don’t look at him. Your business is with me, or it’s with the edge of my sword. Are we clear?”

  Most of the time, Jude’s soft features and gentle demeanor made it easy to forget he was deadly in combat. But then there were times like this, when there was ice in Jude’s voice and fire in his gaze that made it impossible to do anything but heed him. Anton caught a hint of nervousness in Illya’s gaze as he shifted it to Jude.

  “All right then,” Illya said. “What will it be, Keeper?”

  “The Chalice,” Jude said. “Where is it?”

  “You’re about five minutes too late,” Illya replied. “Someone took it from me.” He glanced down at Jude’s fist, which was still clenched in the front of his shirt. “Do you mind?”

  Jude flicked his gaze to Anton who gave a slight nod and Jude released Illya.

  “Who took it?” Anton asked. “The Hierophant?”


  Straightening his clothing primly, Illya said, “You’re probably not going to believe this, but the Necromancer King took the Chalice from me. At least, that’s who he said he was.”

  “The Necromancer King?” Anton echoed. “You’re serious. Is he serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  Jude moved between them. “Say we believe you. What does he want it for?”

  Illya rolled his eyes. “What do you think? He wants what everyone in the entire world wants. Power. Everyone, that is, except you, little brother.”

  Anton reached into his shirt and drew out the Relic of Sight. Illya’s eyes followed it, like a moth to a flame. “You know what this is, don’t you? You want to know where I found it?”

  “I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” Illya said smoothly, but Anton could see his hunger.

  “I went back home. Saw our grandmother.”

  Illya’s expression flashed with surprise.

  “The Relic was in the lake, the one where you—where I almost drowned.” In a low voice he added, “Where you saved me.”

  “The lake?” Illya echoed. “But—”

  “Vasili had it,” Anton went on. “And after he tore apart the Novogardian Empire, he took it into the lake and drowned himself. Just like I almost did. So no, Illya, I don’t want power. Because as far as I can tell, power is madness.”

  “Then I guess we’re all mad,” Illya replied.

  Before Anton could answer, the door cracked open behind them, revealing three robed figures. Witnesses. The tallest one stood in front, taking up the entire threshold. The two behind him were women, one with short, fair hair and freckles, the other tan with long, dark brown hair pulled into a tail behind her.

  Jude pushed Anton behind him, his hand going to the hilt of the Pinnacle Blade.

  “Ah,” Illya said mildly. “You certainly took your time.”

  Jude’s gaze narrowed in on Illya. “You were just stalling so that your backup could catch us off guard.”

  “Hand over the Chalice, Aliyev,” the tall Witness said.