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

by Katy Rose Pool

  “Right,” Illya said. “About that.”

  “The Chalice isn’t here,” Anton said. “You’re too late.”

  The tall Witness’s eyes widened. “You. You’re the Prophet.”

  Anton shrank back as the other two Witnesses began to advance. Jude’s hand tightened on the Pinnacle Blade.

  A hooded figure, robed like the other Witnesses, appeared in the threshold, a metal rod in one hand. Before Anton could react, he swung the rod, catching the dark-haired Witness between the shoulders. She let out a bark of pain and collapsed. The other two turned back to face the rogue Witness in confusion.

  In their moment of distraction, Illya lunged forward, a dagger gleaming in his hand. The blade slashed at the tall Witness, who fell forward with a deep groan, clutching at his stomach. Now defenseless, and the odds against her, the fair-haired Witness staggered away from the melee, backing out through the door.

  Jude rushed toward the newest arrival, pinning him up against the wall with his own metal rod at his throat.

  “Wait,” the fourth Witness panted. “I’m not a Witness.”

  He reached up and tugged off his hood, revealing a handsome face, with warm brown eyes and dark curls.

  Jude took a step back and let the metal rod clatter to his feet. “Prince Hassan?”

  The boy’s face slackened in relief. “Captain Weatherbourne. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  The dark-haired Witness grunted from the floor, clambering to her feet. Before she could so much as make a move, Jude and Hassan both spun toward her, grasping one arm each and shoving her back against the wall. She hissed in pain.

  The tall Witness, still bleeding on the floor, let out a wet gasp and tried to crawl toward them.

  “Please,” the Witness pinned by Hassan and Jude said. “Let me take him to a healer. We’ll go. We won’t come back.”

  Jude glanced back at the bleeding Witness. “You’ll tell the Hierophant where to find us.”

  “Please,” the woman repeated. “He’ll die if you don’t let me take him.”

  “No healer is going to help you anyway,” Hassan hissed. “And besides, isn’t the Grace of Blood an abomination to you? Or now that you need a healer that doesn’t matter anymore?”

  The woman let out a whimper and Anton caught Jude’s eyes, knowing what he was about to do.

  Jude let go of the dark-haired Witness and nodded down at the one bleeding on the floor. “Go. Take him.”

  Prince Hassan gaped at Jude in disbelief, but a moment later he let go of the Witness, too.

  She didn’t thank them, didn’t say a word as she stooped down and heaved the other Witness to his feet. They staggered out the door.

  “What was that?” Anton demanded, rounding on Illya.

  Illya turned away, flicking blood off the dagger. “Self-preservation. The Hierophant would have me killed if he knew I didn’t have the Chalice anymore.” He resheathed his blade.

  “The Chalice isn’t here?” Prince Hassan asked.

  Jude glanced at him. “What do you know about the Chalice? And how did you find us?”

  “I didn’t,” Hassan replied. “I was captured by the Hierophant. He took me here, to Behezda. He’s searching for the Four Sacred Relics. He already has the Relic of Mind. And it’s . . . it was my fault. A mistake. I’m here to make it right. I followed the Witnesses here to stop the Hierophant from getting the Chalice.”

  “How do you know about the Relics?” Anton asked.

  Hassan squinted at him. “Who are you? And where’s the rest of the Guard?”

  Jude crossed the room toward Anton in a few short steps. “The Guard is . . . not here. Prince Hassan, this is Anton. He’s the Last Prophet.”

  Prince Hassan stared at Anton, a complicated mix of emotions on his face. Anton felt the silence lengthen, growing awkward.

  “He’s also my brother,” Illya added.

  Anton ignored him. “We need to find the Hierophant. Can you help us do that?”

  Hassan nodded. “I know he’s heading to the Red Gate.”

  “So we go there. Stop him, get the Crown.” Anton looked at Jude.

  “And the Chalice?” Jude asked.

  “I don’t know,” Anton said. “But I do know that everything is pointing me to the Gate.”

  “What about him?” Hassan asked, indicating Illya.

  “I’ll be getting out of this city as soon as possible.”

  Jude cast Anton an apologetic look and then grabbed Illya’s arm before he could leave. “You’re coming with us.”

  “What?” Anton demanded. “Why?”

  “You know the Hierophant,” Jude said to Illya. “You followed his orders. We need to know what we’re walking into.”

  “I don’t know him that well.” Jude squeezed his arm tighter. “All right, all right!” Illya relented.

  “One wrong move and you’re dead,” Jude warned. He let go of Illya, who flinched, and Anton couldn’t help but feel a little smug.

  Jude reached for Anton’s hand. “You ready?”

  “No,” Anton answered, lacing their fingers together. “But that’s not going to stop me this time.”

  50

  EPHYRA

  EPHYRA WANTED TO SCREAM. SHE WANTED TO RAGE AT HECTOR. THREATEN him. And she wanted to rejoice. To sob with relief.

  Beru was alive.

  But maybe not for long.

  “How can the Necromancer King still be alive?” Hector asked. “He lived over five hundred years ago.”

  “He was powerful, even without the Chalice. My guess is he’s been siphoning off esha in order to lengthen his life.”

  Hector closed his eyes. “It was him. It must have been. He’s the one who brought me back.”

  “What does he want with you?” Ephyra asked. “With Beru?”

  “I don’t know,” Hector replied. “He only told us he needed the Chalice to save her.”

  Of course. The Necromancer King would want the Chalice back, to restore himself to full power. And then what?

  “We need to find it,” Ephyra said, pushing herself to her feet. Without the Chalice, the Necromancer King would overpower her. Even if they found Beru, it wouldn’t matter.

  “What happened to it?” Hector asked.

  “Someone stole it from me,” Ephyra replied. Illya. “But before that I used it. I . . . killed with it. I can still feel an echo of its power.”

  “So you can find it?” Hector asked.

  “I think so.” She glanced at him sharply. “Did you really come here to save Beru?”

  Hector let out a breath and nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I just . . .” He pursed his lips. “It’s a feeling. I don’t know. I need to protect her.”

  The last time she’d seen Hector and Beru together, he had been waiting for her to die. His death was what had finally torn Ephyra and Beru apart. She felt unsettled to know that some sort of bond had formed between Beru and Hector after all that. She knew Beru had had a crush on Hector when they were kids—she’d once teased her for it until Beru got so mad she kicked her.

  Ephyra was so used to being Beru’s protector. It made her feel strange to think of someone else in that role. And not just anyone—Hector.

  “If you’re lying to me,” she warned.

  “I’m not.”

  Ephyra took a deep breath, her heart racing. Her palms tingled. She could feel the Chalice’s pull best when she was using her Grace.

  “Give me your hand,” she said to Hector.

  He glanced at her warily.

  “If we want to find the Chalice, you need to trust me,” she said impatiently.

  “I’m not sure I can do that,” he replied. “Considering, well . . . everything.”

  She didn’t have time for this. She reached for him. He batted her hand away. She lunged again and before she could blink he had an arm curled around her neck.

  “Don’t touch me,” he said.

  She slipped her hand up, wrapping it
around his wrist. She’d done this once before. Just once. Siphoning off a small, insignificant amount of esha from Illya to enter the tomb of the Sacrificed Queen. She breathed in, felt Hector’s pulse tap against her hand and coaxed out a thread of his esha.

  Hector withdrew his arm from around her abruptly, evidently realizing what she was doing. She broke away from him, the zing of his esha sparking through her.

  It was enough. She felt the faint tug of the Chalice’s power, whispering against the edges of her Grace.

  Hector stared at her in horror.

  “Come on,” she said, ignoring his expression. “I know where the Chalice is.”

  They journeyed toward the edge of the city, toward the gate that traversed the mouth of the canyon.

  “It’s close,” Ephyra said to Hector. What was Illya doing all the way out here?

  Hector stopped suddenly, going tense at her side. Ephyra drew up beside him. She followed his intent gaze. In the shadow of the city gates stood a tall figure.

  Ephyra glanced at Hector.

  He took a halting step forward. “It’s him.”

  Ephyra hesitantly followed. The man suddenly swiveled around, noticing her presence. He was tall and thin, with long dark hair and a hint of scruff on his chin. Tattoos covered every inch of skin that Ephyra could see.

  “Well,” the man said, smiling. “I’m having quite the lucky day. I finally get to meet the Pale Hand.”

  His genuine excitement disoriented Ephyra for a moment. Was this really the Necromancer King? He looked almost friendly. But that was definitely the Chalice, gleaming in his hand. And behind him, emerging from the shadows, was Beru.

  Ephyra froze.

  “Ephyra,” Beru said, her eyes wide.

  She was really alive. She was right in front of her.

  “How did you get that?” Hector demanded, striding toward the Necromancer King.

  He held up the Chalice, as if admiring it. His eyes flickered to Ephyra. “You want it, don’t you?”

  “Let her go,” Ephyra said, her voice shaking with fury.

  The Necromancer King raised one eyebrow. “I’d be happy to. Let’s make a deal, shall we?”

  “What kind of deal?” Ephyra asked, wary.

  “A simple trade,” the Necromancer King replied. “You, for your sister.”

  “Ephyra, you can’t,” Beru said. “He wants your power.”

  The Necromancer King’s laugh was loud and booming. “She’s right! Your sister’s so wise, isn’t she? I’ll tell you the story if you like. It’s a good one—very tragic.”

  “Spare me,” Ephyra replied. “I already know you gave me some of your Grace.”

  “Yes, well,” the Necromancer King sighed. “We all make mistakes.”

  “So now, what, you want it back?”

  The Necromancer King tilted his head. “It’s only fair.” He looked down at the Chalice in his hand. “Last time I had possession of this Chalice, its power overwhelmed me. Turned on me. But with you . . . with you it will be different. With you, it won’t resist me.”

  “Let her go,” Ephyra said again. “And I’ll give you anything you want.”

  The Necromancer King smiled. “Yes, you will.”

  Ephyra stepped toward him. He withdrew his hand from Beru, but she didn’t move.

  “Don’t do this,” she pleaded. “Please. Not for me.”

  Ephyra stepped toward her sister. Beru moved out of her reach. Ephyra let her hand fall.

  Ephyra turned to Hector. “I’m trusting you. But if you hurt her—”

  “I won’t,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

  Ephyra nodded. “Then get her out of here.”

  The Necromancer King held out his hand. Ephyra took it.

  He yanked her toward him and Ephyra stumbled as he gripped her wrist and pulled her arm out in front of him. She sucked in a harsh breath and heard Beru’s gasp behind her.

  With his other hand, the Necromancer King withdrew a knife. Ephyra cried out and tried to break away, certain he was about to kill her.

  The knife slashed at her arm, just above her wrist. Calmly, he put the knife away and picked up the Chalice, holding it beneath the flow of Ephyra’s blood.

  “What are you doing?” Ephyra demanded.

  He hummed gently, and then released her arm before swirling the blood inside the Chalice.

  Ephyra watched in horror as he lifted the Chalice to his lips and drank. When he looked back up from the Chalice, his eyes were glowing.

  “What did you just do?” she demanded.

  The Necromancer King smiled, wiping a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth. Ephyra held her bleeding arm as he closed his eyes and raised one hand toward Hector.

  Ephyra gasped, feeling her own Grace respond. Hector let out a grunt of pain and staggered, like he was fighting an invisible force. Then he grabbed Beru roughly by the shoulders.

  Beru cried out, struggling against his hold. “Hector—what—”

  “I’m sorry,” he bit out, sounding like he had to fight to speak. “I’m not—this isn’t me.”

  Ephyra’s gaze went back to the Necromancer King, and she understood at once. The Necromancer King had commanded his revenant armies with the Chalice. He had controlled them. The same way he was controlling Hector now.

  “This wasn’t our deal,” Ephyra raged. “You said you would let her go!”

  The Necromancer King glanced at her. “I did, didn’t I? I just never said I wouldn’t take her back. You really should be more careful in the future.”

  He turned and swept away. Hector followed, dragging Beru with him.

  “Ephyra!” Beru’s panicked voice cried. “Ephyra, don’t—don’t let him—”

  “Where are you taking them?” Ephyra asked.

  “To get what I’ve lived for these last few centuries,” he replied. “Revenge.”

  51

  JUDE

  THE RED GATE OF MERCY LOOMED BEFORE THEM, ITS SHADOW STRETCHING across the cracked earth as the sun sank over the desert. The ruins of Behezda’s original city center spread out around them. The Hierophant and about thirty of his Witnesses stood in their shadow. Beside the Hierophant was an unfamiliar Herati man, bound by Godfire chains.

  “Arash,” Prince Hassan said. The chained man’s gaze flickered toward him but he did not reply.

  On the Hierophant’s other side, a Witness clutched a glass box, inside of which sat a golden crown. The Relic of Mind.

  The masked Witness who had attacked Jude and Anton in Kerameikos and Endarrion stepped out from the ranks, in front of the Hierophant.

  “Illya Aliyev,” the Hierophant said. “Where is the Chalice?”

  Beside Jude, Illya tensed. “I had a run-in. Someone stole it.”

  “You let the Relic of Blood get stolen?” The Hierophant’s tone sharpened.

  “Didn’t you do enough damage in Nazirah?” the masked Witness demanded. “When you let the Prophet go free? The Immaculate One had to send me to clean up after your mistake.”

  “And you’ve done such a wonderful job,” Illya said drily. “Who was it who let the Prophet and the Keeper of the Word slip through their hands not once, but twice? And who is it who’s standing here with not only the Prophet and the Keeper, but also two of the Relics?”

  “Enough,” Jude said. He faced the Hierophant, his hand on the hilt of his blade. “We know what you’re planning. But if you unseal the Gate, you’ll start the Age of Darkness.”

  “And you still think you can stop it,” the Hierophant said.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because we were wrong,” the Hierophant said. “When the Prophets slew the god and took his power . . . they strayed from his plan. And we paid for it. So now we must set it right. We must open the Gate.”

  “You will bring ruin to the whole world,” Anton said. “I’ve seen it. Is that really what you want?”

  “When will you understand?” the Hierophant said. “It is not about what I want. Nor what
you want. Our human desires do not matter. We are merely instruments to the will of the world.”

  Jude’s faith had been broken before, but something had changed within him the night they’d left the Order behind. For the first time, he’d put his faith wholly in himself. No one, not even the Hierophant, could break it now.

  “You think you have a choice?” the Hierophant asked. “That any of us do?”

  “Yes,” Jude said, staring into his bright blue eyes. “I do.”

  He undid his cloak, letting it fall from his shoulders. He folded it up neatly, walked calmly over to Anton, and then held it out to him. Anton took it hesitantly.

  The masked Witness unsheathed his Godfire sword. The flames rippled brightly in the fading sunlight.

  Jude gripped the hilt of the Pinnacle Blade. He could feel the surge of its power. He closed his eyes.

  Please, he thought desperately.

  The scarred Witness attacked. Jude tried to unsheathe his sword, summoning his Grace. It flickered to life and then sputtered out.

  “You think you can still rely on that vile corruption?” the Witness spat.

  He struck again, fast and hard to Jude’s left. Jude turned, dodging the blow. The Witness slammed his fist into Jude’s ribs.

  “Jude!” He heard Anton’s panicked voice behind him.

  Jude choked out a gasp, air punching out of his lungs.

  The Godfire sword swung down again and Jude barely had time to block it with his sheathed sword. Their swords crossed, bringing them face-to-face, and Jude stared into the Witness’s eyes and the thin, pale scars around them.

  Horror filled him, as it had the first time he had seen the evidence of what this man had done to himself. But with horror came something else, something he had tried not to see. Recognition. No matter how sickened he was at the thought that this man had burned his own Grace out, there was a part of him that understood it completely. Understood the overwhelming drive to prove himself worthy to a cause that wanted nothing less than his self-destruction.

  They shared the same scars. And only now was Jude able to see the other ones, the invisible ones that the Order of the Last Light had left on him. The self-immolation that he had performed again and again, to deny the entirety of who he was, to burn away the parts that the Order did not want him to be. Reflected in the Witness’s awful, senseless devotion was Jude’s.