He did not want to see himself in this man, but he did.
“It will never be enough,” Jude said. “You can devote every part of yourself to the Witnesses, to the Hierophant, and it will never be enough.”
“You know nothing about me, about my devotion, or the Immaculate One!” The Witness lashed out with a roar, striking hard. Jude threw himself to the side to avoid it, and landed lightly on his toes.
He knew what he had to do.
The Witness charged at him again and Jude reached for the hilt of the Pinnacle Blade.
Stop fighting, the Nameless Woman had said.
He felt the weight of the sword in his hands.
He thought of drawing it in the Hidden Spring. Of Anton’s fearful face in the window. Of that same face staring up at him in the cistern, the true north of his heart’s compass. It had felt like being found.
And not because he was the Prophet, but because Jude had waited his whole life to find him, and when he had, it was nothing like he’d ever imagined. Anton was stubborn, and beautiful, and infuriating, and Jude had spent so much time pretending he wasn’t set ablaze every time Anton so much as looked at him. He could not do it anymore. He would not.
He gathered his faith within him and moved through the koah. Breath. Movement. Intention.
He would let those feelings, the truth of his heart, take shape inside him. They would guide him, the way his faith in the Order once had, before that had shredded to pieces. Anton did not believe in the things Jude had believed in, but he believed in Jude and that was enough. It was more than enough, more than anything he’d ever been given. The seeds of Anton’s faith made it possible for Jude’s own faith to take root.
His Grace roared to life, echoing through his veins, flooding him with strength. A powerful storm raged inside him, unstoppable, undeniable. He was Jude Weatherbourne, Keeper of the Word. Captain of the Paladin Guard.
A boy with a heart in his chest and a sword in his hand.
Dust and sand swirled around him as he turned, drawing the Pinnacle Blade to block the Witness’s attack. The strength of his parry pushed the Witness back. Jude went on the offensive, striking quickly. The Witness leaned away from the attack, the Pinnacle Blade passing over him by a hair.
The Witness stumbled, and Jude struck again, meeting the Godfire blade with a surge of strength. The combined power of the Pinnacle Blade and Jude’s Grace blew the Witness off his feet, the Godfire sword flinging out of his hands.
He went down hard, sliding backward in the dirt and kicking up dust. His crumpled form let out a soft groan and he tried to crawl to his feet before giving up and collapsing back into the dirt.
Jude let him be. He wasn’t the one they needed to stop. He advanced on the Hierophant. The Relic of Heart in his hand reverberated with power—so much power that Jude’s body could not contain it alone. It spilled out into the air around him, kicking up dust and sand.
The Hierophant took a step back. His Witnesses closed ranks around him, but Jude barely paid them any mind. The Pinnacle Blade was alive in his hands as he whipped toward the Hierophant, felling any Witness who dared enter his path. Dozens fell in a matter of seconds.
In the length of a heartbeat he was on the Hierophant.
“Stop!” the Hierophant cried, flinging himself backward.
Jude stalked forward, raising his sword.
“Stop!” the Hierophant cried again. “Keeper. You know not who you seek to kill.”
“I know you must be stopped,” Jude replied. “And that is enough.”
With shaking hands, the Hierophant reached behind his head and unhooked his mask, letting it fall. What Jude saw in its place made his blood freeze.
“You don’t want to kill me,” the Hierophant said. “You were born to serve me.”
Jude stared down at the Hierophant.
The face of the Prophet Pallas stared back.
52
ANTON
THE STORM OF JUDE’S ESHA WAS LOUDER AND MORE POWER FUL THAN ANTON had ever felt it.
But even louder still was the silence that followed Jude’s three uttered words: “Pallas the Faithful.”
“Yes,” the Hierophant—Pallas—said. “That was my name, once.”
Anton watched horror and disbelief cloud Jude’s eyes. His whole life had been devoted to serving the Prophets. Anton could not fathom how he felt now, facing the origin of his faith and hearing this man—Prophet—reject everything he had once stood for. To know that it wasn’t just the Order that had let him down, but the Prophets themselves.
“It’s not possible,” Jude said. “This . . . it’s a trick.”
A wave of esha burst across Anton’s senses. But it wasn’t coming from Jude. This was one Anton had never felt before. It was hollow and deep, like an endless echo.
An unfamiliar voice rang through the air. “It is no trick.”
Anton turned and saw a tall man with long dark hair standing at the edge of the ruins, holding what Anton knew at once to be the Relic of Blood. Beside him was Ephyra.
“Hello, Pallas,” the man said, almost tenderly.
“Eleazar,” Pallas replied sharply. “I never imagined I would see you again. I assumed you’d waste away in the desert.”
Eleazar. The Necromancer King.
“Oh, well, I’m sorry to disappoint,” the Necromancer King replied. “I, on the other hand, have imagined this moment many, many times. I’m delighted you survived to see it.”
Anton studied Ephyra who stood rigidly beside the Necromancer King, her hand wrapped around her own bloody arm. She looked washed out, drained. What had led her to the Necromancer King’s side? It didn’t look like she was there by choice.
“All those years and you couldn’t find anything better to do than nurse a centuries-old grudge,” Pallas sneered.
“You did banish me to a desolate wasteland for over five hundred years,” the Necromancer King said. “I found nursing my grudge to be a very productive use of that time.”
“Behezda banished you,” Pallas replied. “I wanted to kill you.”
The Necromancer King smiled, gleeful. “Yes, you probably should have.”
In the distance, Anton could see two more people approaching the Red Gate.
He knew when Jude had spotted them by his sharp intake of breath and the quietly uttered, “Hector?”
A stab of anger went through Anton. He remembered well what had transpired the last time Jude had seen Hector. That anyone could throw away Jude’s friendship, his love, was unfathomable. Anton could see the raw pain on Jude’s face and longed to cross toward him and comfort him.
But as his gaze went back to Hector, he saw that something was wrong. Hector went to the Necromancer King, pulling Beru with him, but he seemed to struggle with every step. As if he wasn’t in control of himself.
Cold dread seeped through Anton’s veins. Beru was here. This is what he’d seen in his vision. They were standing on the precipice of the Age of Darkness, and Anton didn’t know how to stop it.
“You see, Pallas?” the Necromancer King said. “You aren’t the only one with followers.”
“You mean undead abominations you’ve enslaved,” Pallas said.
Anton glanced back to Ephyra, who did not seem surprised by the appearance of Beru and Hector. He had to get her attention somehow. If she could steal the Chalice while the Necromancer King was distracted, they still had a chance to reseal the Gate. But her gaze was locked on Beru.
“Illya,” Pallas said. “Since you let the Chalice slip through your fingers once, it falls to you to get it back.”
Illya didn’t move.
“Illya,” Pallas said again, with less patience.
Jude turned toward Anton, catching his gaze. He glanced over to the Necromancer King, and then tilted his head back toward the Witness with the Crown.
Anton understood at once. He stepped toward Prince Hassan and nudged him discreetly. “The Crown,” Anton said in a low voice. “We can get it while the Hi
erophant is distracted.”
Hassan nodded. “What do we need to do to seal the Gate?”
“Someone to wield each of the Relics,” Anton said. “And then I’ll use my Grace to bind it.”
“Is that something you’ve done before?”
“No,” Anton admitted.
“Arash can wield the Relic of Mind,” Hassan said, sounding pained by the idea. “We just need to get him out of the Godfire chains.”
“All right,” Anton said. “You get him. I’ll get the Crown while Jude causes a diversion.”
In front of them, the Necromancer King was holding the Chalice in one hand, his other outstretched to the Hierophant. The Hierophant sucked in a sharp breath and began to shake violently. The Necromancer King was draining his esha.
Jude ran for the Necromancer King, moving so quickly he was just a blur.
The clang of steel rang out and Jude skidded to a stop, the Pinnacle Blade locked with Hector’s sword.
“No,” Jude gasped. “Hector.”
“I’m sorry,” Hector cried out. “I can’t stop myself!”
He attacked again and Jude did nothing more than parry the blow.
Anton bit his lip and forced himself to look away. He had to trust Jude. “Now,” he hissed at Hassan.
The two of them took off, running at the Witnesses at the foot of the Gate. Anton flung himself at the Witness guarding the Crown, crying out as they toppled over. The box that held the Crown hit the ground beside them.
Anton dove for it. The Witness wrapped his arms around Anton’s waist, holding him back. More Witnesses surrounded Anton, running for the Crown. Anton twisted and kicked the box as hard as he could away from them. It skipped across the rock and shattered open near where Hassan was fighting off another group of Witnesses, brandishing one of their Godfire chains.
The Witness leapt off Anton, following the others toward the Crown, but he was too late. Hassan picked it up and held it in his hands. Beside him, the other Herati man, Arash, was struggling to his feet, his Godfire chains coiled on the ground.
“Take it,” Hassan said brusquely, thrusting the Crown at Arash.
Hesitantly, he reached for it.
“Anton, now!” Jude called. He was still battling Hector back. Behind him, the Hierophant was on his knees before the Necromancer King, who glowed with the Chalice’s power.
“The Crown,” Anton said to Arash. “You need to use it.”
Arash looked down at the Crown and placed it on his head. Anton gripped the Relic of Sight, closing his eyes. He could feel the power of each of the Relics surging together, threading into one another. The Crown, the Blade, the Chalice, the Stone. Bright, cold light surrounded him. This was the god’s esha, both the source of his power and the only thing powerful enough to contain him.
Through the Stone, Anton could see everything around him, although not with his eyes. All around him were concentrated, beating hearts of esha, each distinct. And where the Red Gate of Mercy stood, the threads of esha in each of the Relics knotted together, forming the seal that kept the god’s energy trapped inside. Bursts of esha radiated out of it, making it look almost like a tiny sun, or a compass rose.
That was what Anton needed to repair.
He reached out and touched the Red Gate. He suddenly knew what he needed to do, by the same instinct that had caused his Grace to call out to Jude in the cistern in Nazirah. He breathed in and directed his own power toward the seal, his Grace reverberating out from him. He felt the smooth rock surface of the Gate and tried to bend the power of the combined Relics toward it. The Relics’ esha resisted. They did not want to be controlled.
He dug his heels into the ground and pushed the Relics’ esha with his Grace as hard as he could, shepherding it toward the Gate, into the broken seal.
His Grace strained inside of him. He was stretching it to its limits, even with the added power of the Stone. His knees hit the ground and still he held on, even as the white light screamed inside his head.
It was too much. The pain and the light would scorch his mind. That much power would overtake him. Drive him mad, just like Vasili. He would be nothing but a hollow shell. His grip on the Relics’ esha began to slacken.
This was what his vision had been trying to tell him. This was what had scared him, paralyzed him. That bright, cold light—it was the god. And it was far, far too powerful for him.
He felt someone grab him and wrench him back from the Gate, severing his connection with the seal. Without a place to direct the esha of the Relic, it stormed through him, muting all of his senses. When the shock of it faded, Anton was on his back. Someone’s hand closed around the Stone, ripping it from his neck.
“No!” Anton cried, opening his eyes and jerking upright. The world swam around him. All he saw was Pallas in front of him, holding the Stone. Somehow, he’d gotten free of the Necromancer King.
Anton could still feel the esha of the Relic, but there was nothing he could do as Pallas took up the combined power of the Relics’ esha. It crashed through the Gate, shattering the seal.
Cold, bright light flooded out, bathing the world in its glow, whiting out everything around Anton until it was all he could see.
53
EPHYRA
EPHYRA HAD WATCHED THE SCARRED SWORDSMAN STRIKE THE NECROMANCER King with his Godfire blade. For a moment Ephyra had felt like it was burning her own skin.
The Necromancer King had had the Hierophant in his clutches, draining the esha from him—slowly, she assumed, because he wanted the Hierophant to fully comprehend his defeat.
But then the Witness’s attack had set the Hierophant free, and Ephyra watched as he raced toward the Red Gate of Mercy.
In front of her, white flames danced on the Necromancer King’s skin as he writhed in pain, the Chalice still clutched in his hand.
“NO!” he roared. The Chalice seemed to glow in his grip and Ephyra felt her own Grace reach out toward him. Somehow, impossibly, his burns began to heal.
A sharp cry of anguish rang through the air. Ephyra whirled, heart pounding. Beru lay sprawled in the dirt, in the shadow of a crumbling wall that must have once belonged to a great tower.
“Beru!” Ephyra cried, rushing toward her.
She reached Beru’s side and dropped down in the rubble, cradling her sister in her arms. It took her a moment to understand what was happening. The Necromancer King was drawing Ephyra’s Grace to strengthen his own, but it was Beru’s esha that he needed to heal the Godfire burns.
She had to stop him.
He was pulling on her Grace, pulling on the Chalice to heal himself, but the Godfire persisted, trying to burn out his Grace even as he used it, as if the fire and his Grace were pushing against each other, neither one powerful enough to douse the other.
Ephyra closed her eyes, clutching Beru tighter, and focused on the esha draining out of her. She pushed with her Grace, grabbing hold of the esha to staunch the flow, but no matter how hard she pressed, Beru’s esha spilled out of her like water in a cracked glass. She could feel it dwindling, Beru fading right under her hands.
“Ephyra?” Beru said faintly, looking up at Ephyra with unfocused eyes.
“I’m here,” Ephyra said, pressing her palm to Beru’s heart. “It’s going to be all right.”
“I’m scared,” Beru said in a tiny voice.
In all their years together fighting and scrambling to keep Beru alive, Beru had never once let on how scared she was. No matter how weak she got or how awful she felt, Beru put on a brave face. Ephyra had always known it was an act, but to see that act finally shatter terrified her.
Ephyra wouldn’t fail her. Not again. She let go of Beru’s esha, even as it poured out of her. She could still feel the Necromancer King’s Grace pulling at hers. Ephyra summoned all of her strength—all of her rage and her grief and even the nothingness that had consumed her when she’d thought Beru was dead—and pulled back.
The Necromancer King’s Grace and the Chalice stuttered in he
r grip. Beru’s heartbeat slowed under her palm.
No, Ephyra thought desperately. The Chalice called to her. Ephyra opened herself to it. Let it in. She was a conduit. She saw now what the Chalice wanted. Why it had turned on the Necromancer King. The Chalice did not want to be controlled.
Its power surged into Ephyra, breaking free from the Necromancer King’s control. The Necromancer King let out an agonized scream as the Godfire overtook him, but it sounded far-off. Ephyra’s Grace thrummed inside of her. It seeped out of her, too much for her body to contain.
It was not just the Chalice, she realized. Energy more powerful than anything Ephyra had ever felt flooded through her, burning hot and uncontrollable. Ephyra’s hands were on Beru. Without knowing what she was doing or why, Ephyra guided the energy into her sister.
Whatever this was, it would save her, for good this time.
When she opened her eyes, four thick threads of esha were twisting around Beru like billowing smoke. She could see them. They spiraled around Beru and she began to glow from within, brighter and brighter. Fissures of light formed like cracks on her body.
Ephyra gasped through her tears. It was too late to stop the esha flowing into Beru. She could only hold on, swept inside its current, until it crested like a wave and broke.
It knocked Ephyra flat on her back, as if she’d been caught in a blast, with Beru at its origin. She crawled to her knees. Everything around her was still. The fighting had ceased. And there was Beru, lying on the ground, unmoving.
It felt like Ephyra’s insides had been incinerated. A pitiful sound tore from her throat.
Beru stirred. Her eyes flew open.
Ephyra felt the air leave her lungs in a rush of relief. She had done it. She’d saved her. Nothing else mattered.
Beru got to her feet, smoothly, calmly, and then turned her head, surveying the scene before her. Her eyes landed on Ephyra, pinned there. Ephyra froze under her gaze.
As the Shadow Rises: Book Two of The Age of Darkness Page 37
