“You were just a child,” his father said. “But I knew then. It was as if the Prophet had waited for you. When he finally arrived, his esha called out to you. You are meant to be his Keeper, to keep him safe so that he may save us all.”
Jude felt paralyzed. His father believed in him. The Order, too. Everyone knows you’re destined for great things, Hector used to say. It should have made Jude proud. But it was as if he had been climbing a great tower his whole life, toward a beacon of light, step after step after step, and now, with his destination in reach, the beacon flickered out and all he could see was the black abyss of the unknown.
“This is what I came to tell you, son,” his father said. His face was brilliant with light and hope. “After sixteen years, our search is over. The Last Prophet has been found.”
5
HASSAN
After narrowly returning in time for supper after his first venture into the agora, Hassan couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened—the Witnesses, the Herati acolyte who may have recognized him, and most of all, the Legionnaire standing over him on the steps of the temple like a prophesized hero from a story, curved sword gleaming in her hand.
He knew he had to go back, and when he did, he wanted more time than a stolen hour or two.
The opportunity arrived the very next day.
“Now don’t sulk, Hassan, but I’ll be dining out tonight.”
Hassan looked up from The History of the Six Prophetic Cities to see his aunt standing in the broad open doorway of the balcony. Lethia Siskos was the elder sister of Hassan’s father, though the two resembled each other very little. Lethia was a tall, bony woman, whose stern, lined face contrasted with her brother’s warmer, softer features. But their eyes were the exact same shade of river green—and when Lethia rested those eyes on Hassan, he almost felt like his father was watching over him.
Lethia had married her husband, the previous Archon Basileus of Pallas Athos, long before Hassan was born, but she and her two sons had returned to visit the Palace of Herat often when Hassan was a child. Hassan had always greatly looked forward to their visits. Like him, Lethia and her sons were not Graced, and their presence in the palace had always made him feel less alone.
“I don’t sulk,” he said automatically, marking his place and closing the book.
“Then don’t pout.”
“Where are you going?” Hassan asked, mentally calculating how much time he would have while she was out.
“The Archon Basileus and the Basilinna invited me to dine at their estate,” Lethia replied, leaning against the balcony balustrade. “Apparently, there’s been some scandal with a priest murdered at one of the tavernas in the High City. They’re saying it’s connected to murders in other cities. The Archon is quite worked up about it.”
“He’s worried about a murder when the Witnesses are ruling Nazirah?” Hassan asked, his plans for sneaking out to the agora momentarily forgotten. “Has he given you an answer yet?”
Lethia’s brow creased. “Not yet. He says he’s sympathetic to what’s happened in Nazirah, but that he’s facing a backlash for allowing the refugees into the agora.”
Hassan thought back to the way the butcher had sneered at Azizi. “The Temple of Pallas used to welcome pilgrims from all over the Pelagos into the agora. How is this any different?”
“Because it’s been a hundred years since there were pilgrims in Pallas Athos,” Lethia replied. “The priests are no longer interested in anything but protecting their own wealth and power. The only thing they care about is keeping the populace happy enough not to complain about their greed.”
“Then the Archon Basileus should punish them,” Hassan replied. That was what he would do, if this were Herat. Corruption brewed in every city, everywhere, and the only way to stamp it out was to act swiftly to remove those who abused their power. “He should dismiss the worst offenders from their stations. While he’s at it, he should confiscate the tribute of the offenders and use it to feed the refugees.”
“Spoken like a prince,” Lethia said. “But Pallas Athos isn’t Herat. The Archon Basileus doesn’t have the power to remove the priests from their stations. They were originally chosen by Pallas himself.”
“But Pallas is no longer here. None of the Prophets are.”
“And the priests maintain that whoever Pallas chose has the authority to appoint their successors after the Prophets disappeared.”
“A perfect recipe for corruption,” Hassan said bitterly. Those who abused their power would only continue the cycle, rewarding the ones who enabled them.
“I told my husband repeatedly to contest this claim before he died. To set up a new system while he was still Archon,” Lethia said. “He never listened—just like every time I tried to give him counsel. The corruption of the priests is entrenched in the city. They’ll do whatever they must to maintain their power, empty as it is.”
Hassan’s stomach twisted. He had known when he came here that the priests were corrupt and self-serving, and that the Archon Basileus who ruled over them was an ineffectual figurehead. He was a fool for thinking they would help him.
“Don’t the priests understand that the Witnesses pose a threat to them?” Hassan asked, anger building. “If the Witnesses gain a stronghold in Nazirah, the other Cities are next. They’ve already begun to grow bolder in these very streets.”
“And how, exactly, would you know that, Prince Hassan?”
“I—” He stopped, realizing that if he wanted to keep his visit to the agora a secret, he would have to tread lightly. “I hear the servants talking. They’re worried about what’s been happening here in Pallas Athos. The Witnesses burned down a shrine in the Low City a few weeks ago. They were even spotted outside the Temple of Pallas yesterday.”
Lethia watched him with careful eyes, and then she sighed. “I can see how worked up you are about this, Hassan. And I agree with you. Of course I do. Nazirah is my city, too, even if it’s been three decades since I lived there. I know how worried you are for your parents. I worry for my brother and the queen, too.”
Hassan seethed, but his anger was more for himself than the Archon. “There has to be more I can do. Something to convince them, anyone, to help my people. I just feel so … useless.” He brushed his fingers against his breast pocket, where the compass lay against his heart. His father was the one person who had never, for a moment, doubted that Hassan was capable of ruling one day. Thinking of his father’s faith in him now made bitterness rise in his throat. “Father never should have named me his heir.”
Lethia’s voice was gentle as she drew closer. “What the Witnesses have done is not your fault.”
“But I couldn’t stop them,” he said.
“And if you were Graced, you could have?”
He didn’t answer. She was right, of course. The Graced were powerful, but they weren’t invincible. Being Graced had not stopped his father and mother from being captured. Their Graces gave them power, yes, but it was also the reason that the Witnesses sought to depose them. And if the rumors were true about the Hierophant’s ability to block the Graced from using their powers, there was no way they could protect themselves. Dread pitted Hassan’s stomach at the thought.
Lethia’s gaze slid away from him. “You should be glad, Prince Hassan, that your father did not deny you your birthright.”
The words hung between them. As the eldest daughter of the Queen of Herat, Lethia should have been the next in line for the throne when her mother died. But like Hassan, Lethia had been born Graceless. Instead of being named queen, Lethia had been married off to the aging Archon Basileus of Pallas Athos. A man who, from what Hassan gathered, had never cared much for his wife, or her considerable skill at politics. When he’d died, his title had not passed to Lethia’s sons, since they were not Graced, either.
“I asked my mother, once, if she’d ever considered naming me her heir,” Lethia said. “All she said was that the happiest day of her life was the day your father’
s Grace manifested.”
Hassan swallowed, not knowing what to say. Lethia had been passed over to become the Queen of Herat because she was Graceless. Now, despite being Graceless himself, Hassan was the heir.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be too harsh on her,” Lethia went on. “My mother grew up in those tumultuous decades just after the Prophets disappeared, when people feared any departure from tradition. But now, things are finally beginning to change. You are proof of that.”
Hassan shook his head. “I don’t deserve this birthright if I can’t do anything to help my people.”
“I wish there was more I could do, too,” Lethia said. “I’ll speak to the Archon again tonight, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
Hassan closed his eyes. “Thank you for trying.”
She smoothed a hand over his shoulder and then turned to descend the stairs to the central courtyard.
Hassan retreated inside, his mind drifting back to the agora and the conditions he’d seen in the refugee camps. Maybe he couldn’t yet do anything for his people back home, but he could do something for the ones who were here.
“I’ll be spending the evening in the library,” Hassan informed the servants in his sitting room. “I shouldn’t be disturbed. You can leave dinner for me here.”
Fortunately, the servants had grown used to him at this point, and knew it was not out of the ordinary for him to lock himself in the library for hours on end. It was how he’d spent most of his time in Nazirah, too—burying himself in the histories of the Six Prophetic Cities, learning all he could about the resources of his country, about warfare and diplomacy—until he’d outread even his tutors from the Great Library.
Now, though, Hassan was tired of trying to arm himself with tales and facts. He wanted to act. So he took a volume from the library to enjoy outside in the dappled sunlight of the sitting garden. When he was sure the servants had left him to his own devices, he hopped the low garden wall and exited the villa’s grounds.
He was becoming an expert at sneaking out.
* * *
The refugees largely ignored Hassan as he made his way into the agora, going about their business with grim resignation. He passed the long line of people waiting to gather water from the fountainhouse, spotting children as young as six and seven hauling jugs back to their campsites, many of them barefoot. Clouds of dirt and dust choked the air as a group of women beat out their tent canvases with sticks. Another woman with a broom was ineffectually trying to sweep the dirt from within her own shelter, an infant strapped to her back.
The crack of wood hitting wood cut through the din. Hassan’s gaze was drawn to an open arena surrounded by crumbling columns, where a group of people stood watching three pairs of sparring fighters.
Hassan’s eyes fell to the last of the sparring pairs—one of them was the same Legionnaire who’d saved him from the Witnesses at the temple. Instead of her curved Herati blade, she wielded a wooden practice sword that seemed to have been carved out of an olive branch.
“Defend your left side, Faran!” an onlooker cried out to her opponent as the Legionnaire delivered a well-placed strike.
The opponent grunted, adjusting to the command. The Legionnaire feinted left again, and then struck him on the right. After a few more attacks she had him disarmed and flat on his back in the dirt.
“That’s the match,” the girl said, helping her opponent back to his feet before tossing the practice sword at him. “Next time, hold on to your weapon.”
Her eyes flickered from her opponent to Hassan, behind him. “You’re back,” she said, cocking her head. “How’s that arm?”
“It’s fine.” Her eyes on him made him feel like a fly trapped in warm honey. She wasn’t pretty the way the delicate daughters at court or the alluring Herati flood dancers were pretty. She was compelling. Strong-jawed and muscular, she carried herself with strength—not just physical strength, but a strength of spirit, a knowledge of herself that Hassan found intimidating.
“What was your name again?” she asked. A few dark strands of hair had escaped her bun and fell loosely against her cheek.
“Uh … Cirion.” Unprepared to provide a name that was not his own, Hassan had chosen the first one he could think of—the name of his cousin, Lethia’s eldest son.
“You here looking for more trouble, Cirion?” she asked. “What, are they not keeping you busy enough in your studies?”
Hassan had almost forgotten that he’d told her he was a student at the Akademos. “I guess not.”
“Or maybe you’re here looking for a lesson,” she went on, a sly edge to her tone.
“Lesson?”
“That’s right,” she said. “I’m training the other refugees. The Sentry have been worse than useless at keeping the camps safe, so we’ve decided to take things into our own hands.”
“Oh,” Hassan said hastily. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t—”
“Come on,” she said, nudging his shoulder. “If you’re going to interrupt, you might as well learn something. Then maybe next time, I won’t have to come in and save your ass.”
A delighted laugh choked out of Hassan. No one had ever talked to him like that at the palace. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“What’s the harm?” she needled. “I’ll go easy on you.”
He couldn’t resist the confident gleam in her eyes. “Well, all right. As long as you go easy.”
She backed away from Hassan, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “I’m Khepri, by the way.”
He trailed after her as they wove between two pairs of sparring refugees, where a rack of wooden swords stood. She picked one up and tossed another at Hassan.
He caught it with one hand, looking up to see surprise flash across her face.
They positioned themselves between two other pairs of fighters in the arena. Khepri’s expression was one of confident determination as she shifted back and took up a defensive stance, inviting Hassan to make the first move.
Hassan felt a smile break over his face as he shifted into an offensive stance. It had been a long while since he’d last sparred, but it felt good to use his body like this. Even though he didn’t have the Grace of Heart, he’d always enjoyed strategy and physicality coming together for a common cause. His mother had taught him well enough to hold his own in a sword fight against anyone without the Grace of Heart.
Most days, he did everything he could not to think about where his mother might be now, or what was happening to her as a prisoner of the Hierophant. But if his sparring lessons had taught him anything, it was that his mother was a fighter. Wherever she was, she was fighting.
“I won’t use any koahs,” Khepri said.
“That sounds fair.” Without using koahs, she wouldn’t have the overwhelming advantage of Graced strength, speed, and enhanced senses.
She laughed. “Oh, it won’t be fair. But maybe a bit more interesting.”
Hassan made the first move, a strike heavy on the footwork, which kept his guard firmly intact. It was a hedge—he wanted to see how she would react.
She parried the blow and then, sweeping beneath his blade, countered it. Hassan blocked—and felt another spark of surprise from Khepri.
“You’re a liar!” she exclaimed, sounding delighted. “You’re no soft-handed scholar. You’ve fought before.”
“Not all us scholars have soft hands,” Hassan answered, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
She attacked again, quicker than before. The force of the impact drove Hassan back, catching him wrong-footed.
Khepri didn’t hesitate. She attacked yet again, taking advantage of his imbalance. He twisted away from her, the wooden sword singing past. They separated, regrouping. Khepri did not seem put off by the failure of her attack. In fact, she seemed pleased, and Hassan got the sense that she was just getting started.
He lunged forward and struck again, and Khepri’s blade was there to meet his, without her ever having taken her eyes off his. He was beginning to feel
the itch of competition thrum through his veins. He wanted to impress her, to show her he could keep up. They traded blows, attack and rejoinder, their blades whirling and clashing, pace ratcheting. Exhilaration sang through Hassan’s blood. But even as Hassan met her blow for blow, he could see she was merely humoring him. Toying with him, even. She underestimated him.
He couldn’t have that. With his next strike, he drove her back and then pretended to trip toward her. When she moved to take advantage of his apparent mistake, he stepped into her and swung down to buckle her stance.
She stumbled, catching herself on her sword to avoid winding up flat on her back.
Hassan gazed down at her, his own sword poised in front of her, a victorious smile creeping over his face. She swung up, and he blocked her sword with his own.
“All right,” Khepri said, their swords crossed between them. “You’re not bad.”
And then, as he registered the grin on her face, Khepri kicked up, knocking the sword from his grip, and tackled him to the ground.
Hassan hit the dirt with a grunt, pinned there with his hips trapped between her knees.
Her triumphant face beamed down at him. “But I’m still better.”
Hassan wanted to say something witty back, but Khepri was breathing hard, and the effect of her exertion was … distracting. His face began to heat, but before he could truly embarrass himself, she climbed off him. He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.
She grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet with entirely too much ease. Graced strength.
“You said you wouldn’t use your Grace,” Hassan said.
“Fight’s over.”
“Then a rematch.”
He was growing to like the sound of her laughter. “You think you’re going to fare any better in round two?”
“You wouldn’t begrudge a man for hoping, would you?”
“Hope should never be begrudged,” Khepri said, and there was something unexpectedly soft in her voice, precious, like the slow unfurling of a river lily. “What about dinner, instead?”
There Will Come a Darkness Page 6
