There Will Come a Darkness

by Katy Rose Pool

  The door of the compartment shucked open. The sight of Hector Navarro standing there stole every scrap of wonder from her mind.

  He’d found her again. And this time, there was no one to stand between them.

  As he prowled inside the car, Beru thought back, not to the last time she’d seen him, but to the first. She and Ephyra had arrived from the city of Charis with his parents and walked the seven miles to their seaside village. Hector’s older brother, Marinos, had welcomed them at the bottom of the walkway and ushered them into the cramped cottage for a dinner of fresh-caught fish, pickled vegetables, and warm bread. It was more food than Beru and Ephyra had eaten in months.

  Halfway through the meal, the youngest Navarro son had raced into the house in a swirl of sand and seagrass. He sat down, tore off a strip of flatbread and, before Beru even had a chance to introduce herself, cheerfully began describing the turtle nest he’d discovered in a tidal pool. She could still remember his face as it had been then—cheeks still plump with baby fat, the dark pink flush of exertion creeping up to his ears, the way his hair plastered against his forehead, damp with sweat and sea spray. And those eyes, as dark as coals. Even in the awkward thrall of youth, Hector had been striking.

  Now, as she sat at the back of the train car sipping tea, Beru watched as those eyes found her. She couldn’t read his face at all as he sat down across from her. Was that pain in his eyes? Fear? Hatred? Between them, a bronze teapot wafted mint-scented steam.

  When he didn’t say anything, she asked, “Shall I call for more tea?”

  She reached for the teapot. His hand shot across the table, catching her wrist. She’d rewrapped it, but they both knew what lay beneath the thin layer of cloth. She watched him closely, feeling strangely calm as she waited to see his next move.

  His hand was warm and rough against her wrist. He wasn’t even holding on tightly—to anyone else sitting in the train car, it might even look like he was being tender. If they didn’t look too closely. Beru swallowed as the pad of his thumb dragged over the delicate bones of her wrist to rest against her pulse.

  “I’m still flesh and blood,” she said. “Same as I was before. Same as you.”

  His eyes flashed, and he jerked his hand back from her wrist as if he’d been burned. “We are not the same.”

  She looked down, surprised by how much his words hurt. “How did you find me?”

  His jaw tightened. He let out a breath, and for a moment Beru was sure she’d be treated to more stubborn silence. “The train ticket you left,” he said at last. “I took it from your friend. Why Tel Amot?”

  The coast flashed by through the window. Beru didn’t know how to answer his question. She could have gone back to Tarsepolis, to Valletta, to any number of other cities. She had chosen Tel Amot. That sunbaked, dust-cracked land where she had begun. And where she had ended.

  “Why? For the same reason you want to kill me,” she said. “I thought if I could go back … maybe there would be a way to fix things. But there’s not. I know that. You do, too. Killing me isn’t going to bring your family back.”

  “It will stop anyone else from dying,” Hector said in a low voice. “It will stop anyone else from having to bury bodies marked by a pale handprint.”

  Beru closed her eyes. So many times, she’d pictured what must have happened that day after she and Ephyra fled. Hector returning to find his father’s cold body. She felt sick every time she thought of it.

  “I never wanted any of them to get hurt,” she said quietly. “Your mother and father. Marinos.”

  Hector’s shoulders tensed. “Don’t say his name.”

  Hector’s brother had been seventeen when he died. He’d been patient and affectionately teasing to his kid brother, riling him up with a few choice words and placating him just as easily. At the tender age of eleven, Beru had been hopelessly in love with both of them.

  She could still remember how she and Hector used to beg Marinos to climb the rocky sea cliffs near their home or sneak into the vineyards of Sal Triste to taste the sweet grapes. On the few occasions Marinos had relented to their mischief, they were triumphant, invincible. Marinos had been Hector’s hero.

  Until Beru and Ephyra had taken him away.

  “You don’t have the right to speak about him,” Hector said.

  “I see his face every time I shut my eyes,” Beru replied. “Do you still remember it? His smile was ever so slightly crooked—the left side of his mouth pulled up more than the right. He had that little scar just above his right eyebrow. I never found out how he got that.”

  “Don’t.” Hector was shaking.

  “I can’t imagine,” she said, her voice low, “what it must be like for you. To see me like this, alive and well, when your family—”

  His fist slammed onto the table, cutting her off and startling the few people around them. Hector kept his eyes lowered until the other passengers lost interest and went back to their tea and chitchat.

  “You think I want your pity?”

  Beru flinched at the cutting disdain in his voice. “It’s not about pity, Hector. I loved your family.”

  “Stop it,” he said. “Just stop—Stop pretending that you’re not—”

  “Not what?” Beru demanded, the long fuse of her temper now alight. “A monster?”

  Hector gripped the edge of the table hard enough to crack it. “You rose from the dead. Ever since then, you and your sister have been traveling down a path that leads to darkness. You’ll pull the whole world into it with you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Hector’s words filled her with dread. She couldn’t make sense of them, but they felt true in a way she couldn’t explain. As though she’d dreamed them once, and now was remembering.

  “It’s time for this to end,” Hector said. In his coal-dark eyes, Beru saw the pain and grief that stoked the flames of his fury. “I am the only person who knows what you are. That means I’m the only person who can stop you. No one else will suffer because of you. I want you to see the cost of every breath you’ve taken on this earth.”

  “I don’t need you for that,” Beru said. “Every night, I see them. The faces of everyone who’s ever died so I could live.”

  “Then why?” he asked, desperation breaking his voice. “Why do you let her do it?”

  Beru made herself meet his gaze. He wanted the revenant, he wanted the specter of his grief. But the only thing she could offer Hector was the truth. “I wanted to live.”

  Hector looked as lost as she felt. “And now?”

  An hour ago, she would have given the same answer. But the moment she’d seen Hector standing in the crypt, something had changed. As if the truth of what she and Ephyra had done had grown heavier. No longer something she could carry.

  She had come to Pallas Athos to find Eleazar’s Chalice, so she could finally be free of the curse of her second life. But now, sitting across from Hector Navarro as the train snaked its way along an endless coast, Beru knew that she would never be free.

  “Now,” she said, “I want to go home.”

  32

  JUDE

  Someone was shaking Jude. And saying things. Jude did not know what things they were saying, but they seemed to be saying them at him.

  Groaning, he opened his eyes. Bright white stars danced in front of his vision before slowly resolving into the features of a face.

  “Oh, good. You’re not dead.”

  Warm peat-dark eyes blinked down at him from beneath unkempt sand-colored hair. Faint freckles dotted a narrow nose and pale cheeks. Jude wondered if he should count them. But before he could embark on this task, a jolt of panic shot through him as he remembered just how he had ended up lying here in a dark, dank sanctum.

  He lurched forward, pushing himself upright. Pain screamed through his left arm. “Hector, he—Where did he—?”

  “He’s gone,” the stranger said flatly.

  “Gone? But—” Jude looked back at the stranger. Only he w
asn’t quite a stranger, he realized as they locked eyes. Like a faint imprint, he could see those eyes staring up at him, wide with fear, from the floor of the crumbling mausoleum. They had held on Jude then, lingering in a way that had prickled at his skin.

  “You’re the other prisoner,” Jude said. “You—This is—”

  “Anton,” the boy supplied.

  Jude’s mind, fuzzy with pain and disorientation, stuttered to a halt. “What?”

  “My name,” the boy said, leaning toward him, “is Anton.”

  “Anton,” Jude echoed, and then sucked in a breath. He was worse off than he thought. Sitting up took most of his energy. Clasping a hand over his bleeding shoulder, he said, “This is your fault.”

  “My fault?” Anton sounded like he might laugh, though Jude couldn’t imagine a less appropriate response.

  “You told Hector where to find the Pale Hand’s sister.” Jude sucked in another labored breath. “You led him to her.”

  “He was going to kill me.”

  Jude didn’t believe that. “He wouldn’t have hurt you.”

  Anton gaped. “Did he tell you that before or after he threw you off a roof?”

  “I fell,” Jude corrected stiffly, but even he knew it was a poor defense. Anton was right. He didn’t want to think about what he’d seen in Hector today. How could the person who had leapt from waterfalls with him, who’d snuck wine from the Order’s storerooms and broken curfews to talk and laugh with him until dawn, be the same person who had cursed his friendship and left him to bleed on the floor of a crumbling mausoleum?

  “Fine,” Jude said at last. “I’m not blaming you for your cowardice—”

  “Well, that’s awfully generous—”

  “But now Hector and the girl are gone.”

  “That,” said Anton, “is not actually my problem.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Anton’s jaw clenched, and when he spoke again, his amusement was gone. “Look. Whether you think your friend was really going to kill me or not, you did save my life. I’m just doing my part to make sure you don’t die. If you don’t want my help, fine. We can part ways here.”

  Jude said nothing.

  Anton sighed. “Let me at least take you to a healer. There’s a row of tavernas near the marina. We can start there.”

  “I don’t need—” Jude began, but a tremendous wave of dizziness overtook him and he had to close his eyes.

  When they opened again, Anton was staring at him. “Can you even stand?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You fell off a roof,” Anton said again. “You’re not fine. I’m surprised you’re even in the vicinity of fine. You should probably be dead.”

  “I have the Grace of Heart.”

  “I noticed,” Anton answered blandly, sweeping his eyes over Jude in a way that made his skin prickle again. “Doesn’t make you invincible. Someone needs to look at that shoulder.”

  “It’ll heal. I need to find Hector. I need to—”

  “He’s long gone by now, and aside from that, you’ll be no help to him in your current state.” He huffed, clearly annoyed. “Let me just help you.”

  Jude closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, summoning the strength to move through a koah. He fanned out his hands and began to lean into his back foot, but another wave of dizziness hit him and he wavered. When he opened his eyes again, Anton was right beside him.

  “Jude. It’s Jude, right?” Anton asked, blinking down at him.

  Jude grunted in agreement.

  “All right then, Jude. Stop being an idiot and let me help you.”

  Jude let out a breath. He was not in the practice of accepting help from … whatever this boy was, but he didn’t have many other options. Tucking himself under Jude’s injured arm, Anton helped him stand. They hobbled out of the sanctum and onto the scorched steps of the mausoleum. Exhaustion hit Jude like a train as soon as the hot morning sun touched him. His knees buckled.

  “Whoa!” Anton cried, struggling to keep his own balance as Jude started to fall. Carefully, he leaned down so Jude could sit on the steps. “Wait here.”

  Jude lolled his head back against the broken pillar behind him. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but when he opened his eyes again, Anton had returned with a package wrapped in crinkly white paper. The scent of sugar and nuts hit him as Anton unwrapped it.

  Jude stared down at the triangle of golden-brown dough, sprinkled with sesame seeds and crushed pistachios. “Did you—Is that dessert?”

  “They’re selling them up the road, near the city gates. Here.” He shook the pastry in front of Jude’s face. “You need to eat to recover your strength. Unless you’re too busy bleeding on everything.”

  “I’m not bleeding anymore,” Jude said, although he didn’t actually know if that was true. His entire side throbbed, every breath harder than the last. He did not have the stamina to both argue with Anton and stay conscious. He ate the pastry. Rich syrup oozed over his tongue, just this side of too sweet. But the flaky texture as he bit through the layers was nothing short of delightful.

  “Good, right?”

  Jude licked a bit of pistachio off his thumb. “I’ve never eaten street dessert before.” He’d never eaten street anything before. Pallas Athos was the first city he’d ever been to.

  Anton beamed.

  “All right,” he said when Jude was done. “Let’s try this again.”

  To Jude’s surprise, the sugar helped. Aided by Anton, he was able to stand up and hobble down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom to catch his breath. The pain in his side had dulled to an ache. He wiped the sweat from his brow and then looked up.

  The white tiers of the High City rose up before him like a great monument of marble and limestone. Crowning the top was the Temple of Pallas. The home of the Order of the Last Light. It felt a world away.

  “It’s this way,” Anton said, tugging Jude toward a narrow road that led away from the High City and down toward the docks.

  Jude gazed over his shoulder at the temple. He thought about how he’d felt, only two days ago, making that long journey up the Sacred Road to the Temple of Pallas. Leading the Order of the Last Light back to the City of Faith. Finding the Last Prophet. He was finally walking the path he’d been meant for his entire life.

  The path was never supposed to take him here. He didn’t know how he could have gotten so off track. He knew he had to go back. He just didn’t know how he could do it without Hector.

  So he allowed Anton to lead him down the street, the low sun at their backs. He focused on the steady beat of his own heart, the gentle pressure of breath in his lungs. And tried to think of nothing at all.

  33

  ANTON

  The late afternoon crowd at the Hidden Spring was already plenty drunk when Anton and Jude arrived. The swordsman’s strength had deteriorated considerably, and by the time they stepped through the colonnaded entrance, he was leaning heavily against Anton. He had lost a lot of blood. Anton knew that, because much of it had soaked through Anton’s tunic.

  “Just a bit farther, I promise,” Anton muttered.

  The taverna was laid out like a horseshoe around a large central courtyard, with zigzagging stairs and walled walkways that led to rooms stacked in tiers, mimicking the city itself. A crumbling fountain dribbled water into a murky pool in the center of the courtyard, where sailors, dockworkers, and Sentry cadets gathered on stone benches around card tables.

  The Hidden Spring was one of many tavernas that lined the docks of Pallas Athos, in an area particularly popular with passing sailors looking for cheap food, copious amounts of wine, a semisoft bed and someone to keep that bed warm. Anton preferred the tavernas closer to the marina square, but it seemed wise to avoid his usual haunts.

  The scent of roasting meats and burning valerian wafted over Anton and Jude as they stumbled through the crowd, avoiding serving girls carrying trays of watered-down wine and muddy ale. Anton’s gaze inevitably found an o
pen sack of coins sitting on a card table, surrounded by what looked like a contentious game of canbarra.

  One of the players was bearded, bald-headed, and so tall that even sitting he nearly matched the height of the serving boy at his elbow. Dark, swirling tattoos climbed up from his wrists to his shoulders, bare to the sun. A healer.

  Anton shoved Jude down onto the edge of the crumbling fountain. “Wait here.”

  Jude nodded, listing to the side.

  Anton caught him and put one of Jude’s hands on the edge of the fountain. “Hold on to this.”

  He turned away, craning his neck over the crowd to find the card-playing healer again.

  A thump and a sudden splash sounded behind him. Anton whirled. One of Jude’s legs was flopped over the edge of the fountain. The rest of him was in the water.

  “There’s a swordsman in the fountain,” someone called with mild concern.

  Two large sailors were already heaving Jude out of the water as Anton dashed over.

  “This yours?” one asked. Before Anton could answer, they shoved the sopping swordsman at him.

  Anton stumbled as Jude slung his arms around his neck, blinking up at him. His eyes were grassy green in the light of the courtyard.

  “The water,” he informed Anton gravely, “is not for bathing.”

  “Oh no?” Anton asked, biting back a laugh. “Easy now. Let’s sit down.”

  Jude didn’t seem to realize his arms were still around Anton, and as he collapsed to the ground, he dragged Anton with him.

  “I’ve had some time to reflect,” Jude said, slumping back against the fountain, “and I think I may need a healer.”

  “Yeah,” Anton said, disentangling himself. “Working on it.”

  He heaved himself to his feet. The healer was dead ahead. Anton marched over, squeezing between two stout sailors who goaded the card players on. With as much bravado as he could manage, he demanded, “How much is the pot?”