For the first time in his life, Jude wondered whether his predecessors had made a mistake. The Paladin were the servants of the Prophets, and they had left to protect their last secret. But what if, in leaving, they had abandoned the Prophets’ subjects at the moment they’d been most needed? Were they then to blame for how hollow the City of Faith had become?
“Truth be told,” the captain went on, nodding to a pair of Sentry bustling past along the perimeter wall, “thanks to this Pale Hand nonsense, the Sentry is stretched pretty thin at the moment, what with the extra patrols around the High City.”
“Pale Hand?” Jude asked.
Beside him, Hector stopped suddenly, leaning against the wall.
“That’s right,” the captain replied, turning back to them. “A priest was murdered last week, with a pale handprint on his body. Real mysterious. We’ve had our men out every night looking for the culprit, but so far nothing’s turned up. And apparently, we’re not the first city the Pale Hand has plagued.”
“We’ve heard about the deaths in other cities,” Jude said carefully. “But I didn’t know there had been one here in Pallas Athos.”
And so close to the Last Prophet.
Hector had gone very still. Jude looked over and saw that his dark eyes were fixed intently on the Sentry captain.
The captain glanced between the two of them. “I’m rather surprised you’ve heard about a handful of mysterious murders, yet you seem to know nothing about what happened to this city since you all left.”
Jude swallowed. “The information we have is perhaps a bit incomplete,” he said. Whatever was happening beyond the walls of Kerameikos Fort hadn’t mattered to the Order unless it had to do with finding the Prophet. He wondered what else the Order had ignored.
“Well, I guess I better get to why I asked you here in the first place,” the captain said.
“The priests want to know why we’ve returned,” Hector said.
“Actually,” the captain replied, “I’d say just about everyone wants to know why you’ve returned.”
The prophecy and the truth about Prince Hassan were far too precious to share. So Jude settled on a half truth. “The Order is very concerned with the growing strength and influence of the Hierophant. The Witnesses now have a large presence in almost every one of the Six Prophetic Cities. The Hierophant has gone from leading a handful of desperate followers to now forcibly capturing the capital of Herat.”
The captain nodded. “We’ve noticed. The Witnesses have been growing in numbers for a while, but with the arrival of the Herati refugees, they’ve started making themselves more visible. Just a few weeks ago, they burned down a priest’s shrine at the edge of the High City. And they’ve been coming around the Temple of Pallas. They all say the Hierophant used to be an acolyte of a temple. You know anything about that?”
“I don’t believe it,” Jude replied. “It’s a lie, designed to make his followers believe he is an authority on the Prophets and the Graced. When he tells them that the powers of the Graced are corrupt, they believe him.”
“So he’s just some kind of charlatan?” the captain asked. “An opportunist spewing whatever lies will get him power?”
Jude hesitated. “He is deceiving them, but I think his zealotry is real. He truly hates the Graced and wants to see them gone.”
The Hierophant was the Deceiver, a master of embellishment and lies, whose goal was to get others to follow him. But at the core of his lies seemed to be a real belief—that if he could end the Graced, the world would be better for it.
“So this Reckoning thing the Witnesses are always shouting about is real?” the captain asked. “And that’s why you came out of hiding?”
Jude bristled. The Order wasn’t hiding at Kerameikos. They’d been waiting.
Before he could decide what to say that would satisfy the captain’s question without giving too much away, a clamorous toll of bells rang out around them. They clanged in a distinctive pattern—one long chime, then two short, and over again. The sound of running footsteps and indistinctly barked orders followed.
“What do those bells mean?” Hector shouted over the cacophony.
The captain’s expression was agitated. “It means one of our prisoners is trying to escape.”
The man’s lack of urgency confused Jude. “Does this happen frequently?”
“Not frequently, no,” the captain replied. “Not to worry. A prisoner loose in here won’t get very far.”
A sudden yell rose up from the practice yard below as an indistinct black-clad figure streaked through it. Three Sentry guards limped behind in various states of disarray.
Without thinking, Jude performed two quick koahs and launched himself two stories down from the perimeter wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hector touch down beside him.
Jude immediately moved to the edge of the yard to cut off the runner. He saw now that it was a girl who looked like she could be from the arid eastern Pelagos. Determination creased her face as she ran, and when she caught sight of him, she veered behind a rack of wooden practice swords.
Before Jude could react, he saw Hector take a flying leap to land directly in front of the girl, hemming her in. Seeing that her plan had backfired, the girl skidded to a halt and tried instead to dive over a low wall that separated the yard from the walkway below.
Hector moved as quick as lightning, seizing her by the arm and dragging her back. She struggled ferociously against his grip until Hector grabbed her other arm, swinging her around so the two were face-to-face.
Jude watched with confusion and concern as Hector’s eyes widened, shock bolting over his face. He went still, his grip on the girl going slack.
She took the opportunity to tear herself away and run right past him toward the gates.
But it was too late. More Sentry guards came pouring into the yard, surrounding her. The girl reeled back but didn’t put up much of a fight as the guards seized her and bound her hands behind her.
“An escape attempt’s not going to look very good for you,” the one behind her said. “Should’ve stayed in your cell.”
The Sentry couldn’t see her glare, but Jude did.
“Keep her bound at all times,” one of the others said as they started to shuffle her out of the yard.
Jude crossed the yard to where Hector stood, still frozen with his hands out in front of him, his face bloodless and stricken.
“Hector?” Jude asked tentatively. “What is it?”
“That prisoner,” Hector said, but he wasn’t talking to Jude. He was speaking to the Sentry captain who had descended from the perimeter wall to draw up beside them. “Who was she?”
The captain shook his head. “Not sure. The patrol around the High City walls brought her in. Found her and one other person in the Temple of Tarseis. Trying to rob it, we think.”
The girl and the guards were no longer visible, but Hector’s gaze was focused on the gate they’d gone through.
“Hector,” Jude said in a low, urgent tone. “What’s going on?”
“That’s no temple robber,” Hector said. “That’s the Pale Hand.”
The Sentry captain looked startled. “What? Can’t be. We told you, we’ve had our men out every night since the murder searching for the Pale Hand.”
“Well, it looks like you found her.”
The Sentry captain frowned, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. He looked as bewildered as Jude felt.
But Hector was as sure as a storm. “Let me talk to her, and I’ll prove it.”
The Sentry captain glanced at Jude, as if waiting for him to respond first. When he didn’t, the captain blew out a breath and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
He swept away from them, and the moment they were alone in the yard, Jude turned to Hector. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“That’s the Pale Hand, Jude. I know it.”
“How could you know that?” Jude asked, searching Hector’s face.
“Because I�
�ve seen her,” Hector replied.
“What?” Jude said. That couldn’t be true. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw the Pale Hand,” Hector said again. “Five years ago.”
Five years ago. Before Hector had been found by the Order’s acolytes in the Temple of Keric. Before Hector’s parents had died.
Jude stepped back, horror seeping down his spine. “Your parents…”
“I still remember the handprint she left on my father’s chest,” Hector said, his eyes hollow and haunted. “I can still see it when I lie awake at night.”
Jude had known that Hector was an orphan, but the time before he had arrived in Kerameikos was something they never discussed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jude asked. “All those years at Kerameikos, you never told me how your parents died.”
At the dawn of their friendship, Jude had tried to coax the tale out of Hector, thinking he could offer him comfort. But every time Jude had brought up the subject of his past, Hector had closed off, becoming distant and cold. Jude had eventually stopped asking altogether.
Hector looked down. “I didn’t—I didn’t know how.”
“But you’ve known who the Pale Hand is this whole time?” Jude asked. “And you kept it from me—from the Order?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Hector said. “When my parents died, I didn’t know anything about the prophecy. Even after coming to Kerameikos, I didn’t know that the Pale Hand had any connection to it. Not until after you left for your Year of Reflection, and I turned eighteen.”
Of course. As the heir to the Keeper of the Word, Jude had known the full contents of the prophecy since he was a child. However, the other wards raised in Kerameikos like Hector didn’t learn the exact words of the prophecy until they came of age. Hector would have learned the words of the prophecy just after Jude went on his Year of Reflection. Was that what had made him leave?
“And this … girl,” Jude said. “This prisoner. You’re sure it’s the same person? You only saw her for a moment.”
“Jude,” Hector said, his dark eyes steady. “It was her.”
To death’s pale hand the wicked fall. The second harbinger of the Age of Darkness. Here, in the same city as the Prophet.
“All right,” Jude said. “We’ll speak with her. Find out the truth.”
Hector nodded, moving past him back into the open yard. Jude hesitated. He was asking a lot of Hector. If he was right, then that meant Jude was asking him to face his parents’ killer. Was he asking too much?
He shook off his doubts as he followed. Hector had sworn his oath, the same as Jude. His duty was to the prophecy. To the Last Prophet. Whatever other feelings he had, he would have to set them aside.
19
EPHYRA
The clanking mechanical noise of the artificed lift broke through the oppressive silence of Ephyra’s cell.
It had been about an hour since her escape attempt. Her first escape attempt, because she wasn’t about to give up now. Although the initial failure had made the task more challenging—they’d moved her from the holding cells to the prisoners’ tower. The only way out was through the lift that ran down the center of the tower. That was definitely a problem. As were the chains clamped around her wrists.
The clanking of the lift ceased, and next Ephyra heard the ratcheting click of a wheel turning and the outer door moving to align with one of the twelve cells. When the clicking ceased, the door of her cell rasped open like a dying man’s last breath. The two swordsmen from the practice yard stood on the other side. Instead of the white and blue uniform of the Sentry, they wore torcs around their throats and dark blue cloaks pinned with a distinctive brooch—a seven-pointed star pierced by a blade.
She’d seen that symbol—yesterday, in fact. These men had arrived in the harbor on the ship with silver sails. The Order of the Last Light.
Now they were standing in the cell, staring at her. Ephyra stared back.
The one closer to her, who had green eyes and a small dimple in his chin, broke the silence first. “A priest died in this city last week. The guard who saw the body said there was a pale handprint on his throat. Would you happen to know anything about that?”
Ephyra had to fight to hide her reaction. Her heart pounded furiously. The Sentry had only accused her of robbing a temple—they’d said nothing about the Pale Hand. Was it possible that these swordsmen knew it was her?
She forced a laugh. “First, I robbed a temple. Now, I murdered a priest? What are you going to accuse me of next—kidnapping the Archon’s son?”
The other swordsman, the intense dark-eyed one who’d caught her in the yard, stepped toward her suddenly. “Tell us what you’re doing in Pallas Athos.”
Familiarity pricked at Ephyra. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you Paladin supposed to be gone, or in hiding, or whatever it is you did after the Prophets disappeared? What are you doing in this city?”
“That doesn’t concern you,” the dark-eyed man said.
“Well, maybe my business doesn’t concern you.”
“Your business is killing,” he spat. “You killed that priest, and he wasn’t the first. Tell me—how many lives has the Pale Hand claimed?”
Ephyra met his dark gaze. The feeling of familiarity grew stronger.
“It really is you,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “After all these years. I thought I’d never set eyes on you again. But here you are.”
He let out a hollow laugh that sucked the air from Ephyra’s lungs.
Suddenly, she realized she knew exactly who he was.
Hector Navarro. The boy she’d orphaned all those years ago to save Beru’s life. She’d always wondered what had happened to him, after she had taken everything he had. After she had killed his parents, his brother.
“I searched for you,” Hector said. “I spent months trying to find you. And while I chased down every rumor of the Pale Hand, I thought of this moment. Of how it would feel to finally face you.”
The other swordsman touched Hector’s shoulder, concern and confusion etched into his soft features.
Hector shook him off and raised his eyes back to Ephyra. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
She didn’t. She had nothing, no words to convey how devastating it was to sit there staring up at him. Remembering him. Of all the deaths she’d caused over the years, these were the ones that still gutted her.
“You killed my family. Admit it!”
Ephyra flinched as he lunged at her, but the other swordsman held him back with the full force of his own body.
“Hector!” It had the bark of an order.
Hector’s eyes were pinned on Ephyra, his whole body tense and ready to strike.
“Get some air,” the other swordsman said. “Now.”
Hector relented, and then with a last torrential glance at Ephyra, he whirled out of the cell, back into the guardroom.
As the low groan of the lift sounded from outside the cell, the other swordsman turned and fixed Ephyra with a searching stare. If she had thought this swordsman was softer than Hector, she realized now she’d been wrong. There was steel in that stare.
“Is he right? Are you really the one who killed those people? Are you the Pale Hand?”
Ephyra said nothing.
“Are you?”
“If I was, do you think I’d still be here?” she asked. “Someone who could do that … who could kill those people without remorse, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill you, or a few Sentry guards, would they?”
The swordsman pressed his lips together tightly.
“Your friend looked upset,” Ephyra said. “Maybe you should go find him. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
The swordsman glanced to the door and then back to her, his expression torn. After a moment, he turned on his heel and followed Hector out.
The door clanged shut behind him, leaving her awash in her own questions. Questions like, What was Hector Navarro, the youngest son of the fam
ily she’d killed all those years ago, doing with the Order of the Last Light?
And what did the Order of the Last Light want with her?
20
HASSAN
Hassan returned to the agora for the sixth time in as many days. But this time, instead of curiosity or longing, it was dread that drove his every step.
Khepri brought them to a tent that had been erected in the style of the desert nomads, with a wide hexagonal base and a gradually sloping roof made of woven palm fronds. She held aside the dried river reeds that hung over the entrance, motioning Hassan and Penrose inside.
It was dark and warm within the tent. Baskets piled with dried roots and flowers hung from the vaulted ceiling, while soft pallets and cushions lay strewn across the floor. Three women, old enough to be Hassan’s grandmother, bustled inside, laying out valerian root on a camelskin and grinding some kind of fragrant leaves into a bowl. One of them paused her ministrations, looking up as they entered.
“Prophet’s blessings, Sekhet,” Khepri greeted.
“Prophet’s blessings, Khepri,” the woman replied.
“Prophet’s blessings,” Hassan said. “I am Hassan Seif. This is Penrose.”
“Your Grace!” the woman cried, falling to one knee and lowering her head. “I—We had no idea—”
“Please,” Hassan said, holding up a hand. “You may stand.”
The woman didn’t move.
“We’re here to see Reza,” Khepri said. “I wanted the prince to meet him.”
Sekhet’s eyes cut up to Khepri. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
“The prince needs to see him,” Khepri said firmly.
The old woman hesitated a moment longer. Some kind of unspoken communication passed between her and Khepri, and then she nodded and got to her feet. “Of course. This way.” She led them to one of the curtained-off sections of the tent. “Idalia is with him right now, but you can go right in.”
Nerves buzzed in Hassan’s chest as he followed behind Khepri. She drew the curtain aside, letting him step through and then Penrose. As Hassan’s eyes fell on the thick pallet laid out before him and the figure that lay on top of it, it took all of his control not to recoil.
There Will Come a Darkness Page 16
