There Will Come a Darkness

by Katy Rose Pool

  “It’s too late to get dealt in. You’ll have to wait for the next hand,” the healer said, waving him off.

  Anton lifted the sack of coins from the table.

  “Hey,” exclaimed the healer’s opponent, a scrawny, rough-looking fellow. “What in the Wanderer’s name do you think you’re—?”

  “Forty virtues?” Anton asked, tossing the sack back down. “I’ll give you fifty-five if you put your cards down right now and come upstairs with me.”

  The sailor behind Anton choked out a laugh.

  The healer leaned back in his chair, raising one thick eyebrow. “Well. That is an interesting proposition. But I’m not sure my husband would approve.” He inclined his head at the scrawny man across from him, who gave Anton a smile that managed to be both pleasant and threatening.

  “What? No. I’m not asking you to come up to my room,” Anton stuttered. “I mean. I am asking you to come up to my room. But not like—”

  “Is that blood?” The healer’s husband pointed.

  Anton looked down at himself.

  “It’s blood,” the healer confirmed.

  “So,” Anton said. “Are you going to help us out, or what?”

  “Us?”

  Anton glanced back at Jude, who was still slumped by the fountain.

  “Behezda’s mercy,” the healer muttered. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Oh no,” the scrawny man said. “I know that look. You’re not getting us mixed up in whatever this mess is, Yael.”

  The healer dropped one large hand onto his husband’s shoulder and leaned in, kissing him briefly on the cheek. “Relax, dear,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time for you to cheat me out of whatever money I earn after I’m done earning it.”

  “Oh, all right,” his husband replied waspishly. “I was getting bored of beating you, anyway.”

  The healer rolled his eyes as he swept toward the fountain, Anton at his heels. Together, they lifted Jude awkwardly from the ground. The crowd parted easily for Yael, who was so tall he had to stoop to wrap his arm around Jude’s waist as they maneuvered up the zigzagging stairs.

  Once Jude was safely curled up on the bed of one of the taverna’s open rooms, Yael turned back to Anton.

  “I’ll do it for eighty virtues,” he said.

  That was nearly all the money Anton had left. Enough for a train ticket and a good meal.

  Or enough to pay a cranky healer of questionable moral rectitude.

  “I said fifty,” Anton pointed out.

  “You said fifty-five, and if you wanted charity, you should have taken him to the Temple of Keric.”

  A temple would have been too conspicuous. By now, Illya had surely found out that Anton had escaped the citadel, and he’d be scouring the city for signs of him. This required discretion. And discretion always had a price.

  “Sixty,” Anton countered.

  “Seventy-five.”

  Gritting his teeth, Anton dug out his coin purse.

  Yael smiled as Anton plopped the purse in his large palm. “Your friend thanks you for your generosity, I’m sure.”

  He knelt beside Jude’s pallet and laid out the necessary accoutrements of his trade—cuttings from the blood garden, which would provide the esha to heal Jude, and oils to draw the patterns of binding.

  Anton’s eyes traced the intricate lines of ink that ran along Yael’s long arms in fractal spirals. All healers tattooed the patterns of binding onto their skin to keep their powers focused.

  Yael painted out those same patterns on Jude’s pallid skin. Placing his broad hands on Jude’s arm, he closed his eyes. Anton watched, transfixed, as the bloodied flesh began to knit itself back together. When he looked back at Yael, he found the healer looking down at Jude with a thoughtful expression.

  “You know,” he said conversationally, “there’s a rumor going around that the silver-sailed ship sitting in the Pallas Athos harbor belongs to none other than the Order of the Last Light. Your friend here know anything about that?”

  He sounded merely curious, but Anton couldn’t help being wary.

  “He’s not really my friend,” he said.

  “You sure? You went through a lot of trouble to get him a healer.”

  Anton looked down at his bloody tunic. The trouble he’d gone through for Jude had nothing to do with friendship. He barely knew Jude. But something had rooted him to the ground when Jude had arrived at the mausoleum. As he fought with Hector on the roof.

  It was the way Anton’s Grace reacted to Jude’s esha. It scared him, especially now that he knew just who that stormlike esha belonged to. But there was another feeling, beyond fear. That unconscious pull that wove its way around Anton and made it impossible to turn away.

  Whatever it was, he didn’t like it. Yael was right—Anton had gone through a lot of trouble to help Jude. But now that he had, he didn’t need to stick around. He didn’t need to succumb to that pull.

  “Looks like my work here’s done,” Yael said, unfolding his long limbs and standing to his full height in the middle of the room.

  “Wait,” Anton said, struck with an idea. “The sailors you’re with. Did they just cast anchor, or will they be blowing out soon?”

  “Tomorrow evening,” Yael said. “Remzi likes to keep a tight schedule.”

  “Remzi?”

  “My husband,” Yael replied. “Skinny fellow you almost started a fight with?”

  “Oh, the canbarra player.”

  Yael’s eyes crinkled. “You play?”

  Anton smirked.

  Yael laughed. “That good, eh? I’d say you should come down and join us for a hand, but you’ve nothing to stake, do you?”

  He laughed again, tossing and catching Anton’s coin purse in one palm as he ducked out of the room.

  Anton was left with a newly healed, unconscious swordsman and the edged, flighty panic that said it was time to get out of this city. For more than one reason.

  He turned back toward the door and stopped. There, lying against the wall, was Jude’s sword. He vaguely remembered that it had fallen from Jude’s belt, and Anton had tossed it into the room before laying Jude down on the cot. It gleamed at him now, weighty, elegant. A testament to fine craftsmanship. Anton stared at it a moment longer and realized that Yael was wrong. He did have something to stake. Something expensive, rare, and, best of all, would cost Anton absolutely nothing.

  Anton had done bad things before—ruthless things, selfish things—and while guilt always followed, it was never enough to stop him from doing such things again. He’d been repentant the first time he’d stolen, from an innocent family who’d been kind enough to take him in. He’d told himself he had no other choice when he held a knife to the throat of a man who had once protected him on the canals of Valletta. But none of these things, nor the thousand other tiny wrongs that made up his life, had been enough to make him turn back.

  He wouldn’t turn back now, either. He would leave this city behind, get as far away as he could, until Pallas Athos was just a bad memory he could let fade. He would go somewhere with no Pale Hand, no monstrous brothers, and no swordsmen named Jude. He could let go of them all, like stones sinking to the bottom of the sea. Still there, but no more significant than the thousands of others that lay unturned below dark water.

  He picked up the sword.

  34

  HASSAN

  “We don’t have much time.”

  Khepri’s voice was brisk and urgent as she looked around the table at Penrose, Osei, and Hassan. For hours the four of them had been here in the villa’s library, maps and books and papers spread out across the table. Petrossian, Yarik, and Annuka had gone up to the agora to meet with the refugee army.

  Over the course of the afternoon, Khepri had given Hassan a rundown of the army, and indeed their numbers were small. Three hundred men and women had pledged themselves, although according to Khepri, more and more had been coming as the rumors that the prince was in Pallas Athos reached the camps in
other cities.

  Even with the addition of the four hundred Paladin from the Order of the Last Light, they were still far outnumbered by the Witnesses. Khepri and the other refugees had estimated that the Hierophant had several thousand soldiers in Nazirah—his own die-hard followers and Herati citizens who had turned traitor.

  But the refugee army and the Paladin had Grace and the element of surprise on their side.

  The problem they faced now was time.

  “When Reza was held captive by the Witnesses with Godfire, he said he heard them talk about something called the Day of Reckoning,” Khepri said. “There are other refugees who say they’d heard them talk about this, too. That’s what they call the day they’re planning to unleash their Godfire on the Graced.”

  “And you know when it is?” Penrose asked.

  “We think the Hierophant is planning it for the Festival of the Flame,” Khepri said.

  “Fitting,” Petrossian said grimly.

  “It’s a day of celebration in Herat,” Khepri explained. “The festival that commemorates the founding of Nazirah, and the first time the lighthouse was lit.”

  “That’s ten days from now,” Hassan said. If he were back in Nazirah, if the Hierophant had never seized it, he would be helping his mother and father prepare—decorating the palace with lily and pearl, inviting dancers and poets, sampling the menus for the citywide feast that would last for three days.

  But there would be no dancers this year. No poetry. No feast.

  “Ten days,” Penrose said. “It’s three days sailing to Nazirah, if the good weather holds. We’d need to leave in less than a week.”

  “Will it be enough time for the Order to get here?”

  “We’ll need a few days to provision that many ships. Even with Grace-woven sails, it will be almost five days to sail here,” Penrose replied. “And that’s before they go on to Nazirah.”

  Hassan worried the edge of his lip. If Khepri was right about the Festival of the Flame, they couldn’t afford to wait for the Order. If they set sail too late, they’d arrive in a city of ashes.

  As Penrose and Khepri continued discussing the tight timeline, Hassan’s gaze drifted to the wall, where a marble relief stretched from floor to ceiling, depicting the famous Reconquest of Pallas Athos from over a century ago. It was one of Hassan’s favorite stories. Desperate to win her city-state back from King Vasili and his invading Novogardian army, the priestess Kyria had snuck into the city with a small band of loyal soldiers dressed in plainclothes and successfully retook the stronghold of the citadel. When the Novogardian troops figured out what was going on, their forces poured into the High City, leaving the harbor defenseless. That was when Kyria’s ally and lover, the Princess of Charis, arrived with a fleet of ships to capture the harbor. In the marble depiction, the priestess and her princess stood together on the steps of the Temple of Pallas wearing crowns of laurel set with gold leaf, looking down at a sea of lapis.

  A seed of a plan rooted in Hassan’s mind. He turned to Penrose. “Tell the Order not to come to Pallas Athos. Tell them to sail straight for Nazirah.”

  “Straight for Nazirah?” Penrose asked. “Prince Hassan, we only have one ship here in Pallas Athos. It’s not enough to carry the Herati army. We still need more ships.”

  “I believe I can be of some help.”

  Hassan whirled toward the entrance of the library to find Lethia standing there. “Aunt Lethia.” He pushed himself from the table and strode toward her at once. “I thought you wanted no part of this.”

  Lethia had never been a humble woman by any stretch, but in this moment, she looked humbled. “I took some time to think everything over and … I owe you an apology. All of you.” She turned to the Guard. “Earlier, when I questioned your motives, it was only because I feared for what all of this means for Hassan. He only barely made it out of Nazirah. My brother and his wife were not so lucky. I worry about them every day, and I suppose, rather selfishly, I didn’t want to have to worry about Hassan, too. I apologize for how I reacted.”

  Penrose bowed her head. “Thank you.”

  Hassan swallowed and turned to his aunt. “I owe you an apology, too. I spoke harshly, and I should have realized how difficult the past few weeks have been for you. Herat is your country, too.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Herat is my homeland. That’s why I am going to do everything I can to help you return. Luckily, I know exactly how.”

  “What are you talking about?” Khepri asked, moving toward them.

  “I’m talking about a small fleet of ships with top-of-the-line defenses,” Lethia replied. “And a loyal merchant who will dedicate them and their crews to saving Herat.”

  Hassan blinked at her in surprise. “Aunt Lethia—are you sure?”

  “Of course,” she replied, striding toward the map table and drumming her fingers between the port of Pallas Athos and the harbor of Nazirah. “Cirion is my son. Even if he was raised here in Pallas Athos, Herat is his country, too.”

  “No,” Hassan said. “I mean, are you sure you want to help us?”

  Lethia’s hand paused on the map. “Hassan,” she said, more seriously. “If this is what you’ve decided you need to do, then I stand alongside you.”

  He knew she meant the words. Lethia could seem flippant and insincere at times, but she was never one to go back on her word. Whatever had changed Lethia’s mind, Hassan trusted that she would get him back to Nazirah, no matter what it took.

  “When can you speak to your son?” Khepri asked.

  “They’re returning from a voyage tomorrow. I’ll send word now,” Lethia replied, rising to leave. “I know he’ll help.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Hassan said as Lethia turned to go. “I know there are other refugees who fled Herat. Most of them went to Charis. Someone should go to them, make sure they’re safe.”

  “And ask them to join us,” Khepri added. “They won’t get there in time to take part in the initial assault, but once we’ve secured the city, they can return to help us rebuild.”

  On the other side of the room, Lethia paused. “Send me.”

  All four of them turned to the door.

  “You?” Osei asked.

  “Why not?” she replied, turning toward them. “I have contacts in Charis. I can make arrangements to go there and tell the other refugees what you’re doing.”

  Gratitude washed over Hassan. “There is no one I trust more than you to do this. Thank you.”

  He didn’t just mean for this task. He couldn’t put into words how much her support meant to him—even after her own doubt and apprehension about the prophecy and his role in it, she had still risen to the occasion to help him in every way she could. From the look she gave him, he saw that she understood. With a brief nod, she left the room.

  As afternoon stretched into early evening, Hassan retreated to his dressing room to ready himself to go to the agora, where the rest of the Guard were waiting. Together, they would stand on the steps of the Temple of Pallas and reveal the secret of the Prophets’ unfinished last prophecy, and tell the refugees how Hassan, at last, had completed it.

  Lethia’s servants adorned him in brocade silks of wheat gold and river green, and anointed him with sandalwood and myrrh oil. Atop his brown curls, they set a woven crown of real laurel leaves. It wasn’t the gold and emerald of the Crown of Herat. Not yet. But that crown would be his again soon enough. He had seen it.

  When the servants finished dressing him, Hassan dismissed them and walked out to stand alone on the balcony overlooking the peristyle garden. A lone figure stood among the flowers, enclosed by a white marble colonnade. It was Khepri, surrounded by young saplings, with figs and olives swelling sleek and dark on their branches.

  Before he could reconsider, Hassan descended the staircase, strode across the tiled walkway lined with white and purple hyacinths, and drew up beside Khepri at the edge of the reflecting pool. A thin fan of water flowed down to the delicate silver water organ
, its tune lilting gently over them.

  He followed Khepri’s gaze to where it rested on the pale blue blossoms that drifted lazily on the water’s surface, perfuming the air with their sweetly musky fragrance. The blue lily of Herat. Some of the blooms had begun to close, furling their petals tight to sink below the surface of the water, where they would wait, hidden, to resurface in the light of morning.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Hassan said. “When my father was courting my mother, he sent three barges of these blossoms up the Herat River to her door. He told her that when they married, he would put fresh blue lilies in every room of the palace.”

  Khepri closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. “They smell like home.”

  “Al-Khansa, right?” he asked. Al-Khansa was smaller than Herat’s capital, a vibrant town to the south of Nazirah on the bank of the Herat River. It was always the last stop on the royal family’s tour down the river at the beginning of the flood season.

  Khepri nodded. “Every year during the Festival of the Flood, the whole city is perfumed with the scent of blue lilies. Vendors sell them by the side of the road for people to send into the river with their votives. They say the flowers promise a fruitful year.”

  Hassan plucked a blossom off its lily pad gently. He remembered the last time he’d been alone with Khepri like this—overlooking the camps and the children playing. How she’d touched his hand and leaned into him like a date palm bowing to a desert wind. He had drawn back, afraid of letting anything happen when his lie about who he truly was still stood between them. But she knew now. He had nothing to hide from her. He reached to tuck the lily into her hair.

  Khepri flinched back, and the flower fell to the ground between them.

  “I—Your Grace—” she stammered.

  Those words—Your Grace—instantly diffused the warmth and familiarity between them. There was nothing of the easy laughter, the instinctual intimacy they’d had in the Herati camps that first night in the agora.

  Hassan was reminded that he hadn’t been the only one hiding something that night.