The baker was not particularly happy about being woken up at half past midnight, but being the Pale Hand had taught Ephyra that there were certain advantages to appearing as harmless and innocent as a normal eighteen-year-old girl. Once she had finished spinning her sob story about her missing sister (leaving out a few key details) and Illya had smoothed things over with an artfully creased brow and a perfectly placed catch in his words, the baker had softened like a fig on the vine.
He studied the parchment wrapper. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is mine. But I didn’t see your sister.”
Ephyra’s heart dropped. This had been a long shot, she knew, but it was all she had. She was so tired of running into dead ends. First, with the search for Eleazar’s Chalice, and now, trying to find Beru. She was tired of constantly being one step behind.
“We’re sorry to have bothered you so late,” Illya said gently, drawing Ephyra away, his hand at the small of her back. “Thank you for your time.”
He started to lead her back down the hall.
“I didn’t see your sister,” the baker called after them. “But I did see a northerner like you.” Ephyra and Illya stopped. The baker was looking at Illya.
“You did?” Ephyra asked.
“Yeah,” the baker said. “I remember him because he was covered in dirt or soot or something. He passed by again with another fellow practically falling asleep on him.”
Ephyra whirled back on the baker. “Another fellow? What did he look like?”
The baker shrugged. “Didn’t see him too close. He was wearing dark blue, maybe?”
Dark blue, like the cloak of the Paladin.
“Did you see where they went?”
“Sure,” the baker replied. “Down the road, probably headed to the tavernas by the docks. I remember I was worried whether they were gonna make it. The fellow in blue wasn’t looking too great.”
Ephyra hurriedly thanked the baker again and bid him a good night. When she turned back around, Illya was still standing where she’d left him, a few steps down the hall.
“Come on, what are you waiting for?” she asked, whirling past him. “There can’t be that many tavernas down there. We can find the right one.”
He didn’t move. “I think … maybe you should go without me.”
“What? But we found Anton! Why would you—?”
“I can’t stop thinking about what he said the last time I saw him.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want this to go the same way. Maybe if you talk to him first, tell him what I told you…”
She was used to his effortlessly composed demeanor, and this sudden uncertainty threw her. Could Illya’s remorse be real after all?
He lowered his gaze. “I don’t want him to be scared.”
Ephyra watched his expression for a moment, the fatigue and concern etched into his forehead. She had been so quick to believe the worst of him—but perhaps that was just one more way that being the Pale Hand had warped her. Seeking out monsters had chipped away at her ability to see the good in people. That was always something Beru had been better at. She knew what her sister would do if she were here.
“All right,” she said at last. “If that’s what you want. I’ll go in first and talk to him. Find out what happened to Beru. Then maybe he’ll agree to talk to you again.”
Illya nodded. “Thank you.”
Seized by a sudden impulse, Ephyra reached out and touched his shoulder. “He’s all right. At least you know that.”
His eyes fell to her hand, his face half illuminated by a slant of moonlight coming in through the window. He looked lost.
Ephyra pulled her hand away and turned, hurrying down the stairs and back into the night.
40
JUDE
The festivities in the courtyard lasted long past midnight, though Jude left the sailors to their own devices after the third rendition of “The Wanderer and the Lovesick Mariner.” He’d lost track of Anton at some point in the midst of the revelry and retreated to the tiny room up the stairs where he’d woken only hours before with a healed arm and a missing sword.
He held the Pinnacle Blade in his lap, polishing the hilt. His thoughts pitched and rocked like a ship on the waves, but the weight of the sword grounded him.
Anton was nowhere to be found, which probably meant he’d passed out downstairs. Unbidden, Jude’s mind called up the image of the flushed-faced sailor boy cheering Anton on at the card table. Maybe Anton had simply found another bed to spend the night in.
Footsteps sounded from outside the room. Jude’s fingers curled instinctively around the Pinnacle Blade.
The door creaked open, flooding the room with moonlight and the faint fragrance of sweet oil. Anton shuffled inside, wearing linen trousers and a half-laced undershirt, scratching lightly at his ribs. The shirt rode up, exposing a bare strip of skin beneath his navel.
“Oh,” Anton said, spotting Jude. He lowered his hand, and Jude watched the pale crease of his hip bone disappear beneath the soft fabric.
“You’re awake,” Jude said stupidly.
“So are you,” Anton returned, suppressing a tiny yawn. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Jude gave a hesitant nod. “I … It happens, sometimes.”
Anton rubbed a hand over his dust-colored hair, making it stand up in spiky tufts. It was damp, Jude realized.
“You were at the baths?” he guessed.
“Had to wash off all that prison muck. It was that or the fountain in the courtyard, but you already tested that out.”
“What?”
Anton smiled, a private smile like there was some joke Jude wasn’t privy to. “Never mind.”
“I didn’t think you’d be using the room,” Jude blurted as Anton busied himself with lighting a paraffin lamp. “I was going to try and sleep here, but…” He trailed off awkwardly. His instinct, always, was to be polite, but none of his interactions with Anton had included courtesies. Beginning them now felt like playacting.
“I don’t mind,” Anton said, the lamp flame flickering to life beneath his hands. “If you want to share my bed, though, that’ll cost.”
Heat flooded Jude’s face, and he was distinctly glad for the dimness of the flame so that Anton could not see. “I—That isn’t—I wouldn’t—”
“That was a joke,” Anton said, setting the paraffin lamp on the small table between their two cots. “You know, people tell them to make each other laugh?”
“I know what a joke is.” Jude’s voice was too sharp in the soft light of the room.
Anton shrugged one slim shoulder. “Seemed like maybe you weren’t familiar with the concept.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, you know, just that you’re very—” Anton affected an exaggerated scowl, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders.
Jude frowned.
“Yes, like that,” Anton agreed. He flopped down on the cot across from Jude in a languid half sprawl.
Jude took in Anton’s relaxed pose, the practiced ease with which he carried himself—so at odds with the boy who’d cowered in fear before Hector.
“I’ve given it more thought,” Jude said after a moment.
“Oh?” Anton replied, raising an eyebrow.
Candlelight leapt across his face, illuminating the faint freckles sprinkled along his nose and cheeks. There was a certain kind of intimacy to candlelight that was lost with artificed incandescent light, Jude thought.
“I believe that you meant to return my sword to me,” he decided. “If you’d meant to steal it outright, you wouldn’t have wagered it in the very same taverna where I was sleeping.”
“No,” Anton said. “I guess not.”
“And,” Jude went on, “you did see me back here safely and find a healer for my shoulder. I ought to thank you.”
“Saying you ought to thank someone isn’t the same as a thank-you,” Anton pointed out wryly.
“You did still try to wager my sword.”
A half smile cr
inkled the edge of Anton’s mouth as he pushed himself up on one elbow. “I suppose I ought to apologize.”
“Saying you ought to apologize isn’t the same as an apology.”
Anton’s smile widened, crooked and disarming.
Jude felt his own mouth tug up in response. He quickly looked away, out the window at the ink-black sky. “I’ve been wanting to know—what were you doing with the Pale Hand?”
The smile dropped from Anton’s face. “She was … she was trying to help me.”
“Help you?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“She’s a murderer,” Jude said. “That doesn’t scare you?”
Anton didn’t say anything for a long moment, scratching at a splintered piece of wood on the table. Finally, he said, “Do you know what it’s like to feel fear, Jude? I mean, real fear.”
Jude didn’t answer. He knew fear, of course. He had felt it in his lungs when he faced Hector on top of the roof. He had felt it before that, too—like the flutter of a sparrow’s wings in his chest the moment he had laid eyes upon the Prophet.
“It feels like drowning,” Anton went on, looking down at where he’d gouged a small wound in the wood. “It feels just like drowning, and you can either let yourself sink or you can fight and claw your way to the surface. The thing is, I’m not really sure there’s a difference, in the end.”
Jude’s pulse leapt, and he thought again of how Anton had looked, cowering in the dark shrine with Hector standing over him. He remembered how Anton’s gaze had landed on Jude, how he hadn’t looked away. Something in the boy’s eyes had unsettled him.
He realized now what it was. At the mercy of Hector’s anger, Anton hadn’t seemed frightened. Fear had appeared on his face only when he’d looked at Jude.
“So, no,” Anton said. “The Pale Hand doesn’t scare me. That’s not what I’m afraid of.”
“But something does,” Jude said carefully. “And that … fear … is that why you’re so eager to get out of Pallas Athos?”
Anton lifted one shoulder. “Sure, I guess.” His eyes flickered back to Jude. “What about you? You were this close to maiming me for wagering your sword, but when Remzi said where they’re sailing next, you suddenly threw in your own bet.”
“That city … Tel Amot.” Jude paused. “That’s where Hector said he was going.”
“He almost killed you,” Anton said. “If I were you, I’d be trying to get as far away from him as possible.”
“Well, I’m not like you,” Jude snapped, growing irritated. “I have a responsibility to him. I am his leader. I chose him, and if he dishonors himself, he dishonors me.”
There was a pause, and then Anton leveled his gaze at him. “That,” he said, “sounds like horseshit.”
Jude’s hand clenched around the Pinnacle Blade. He was not certain of much anymore, but he was certain he no longer wanted to talk about Hector, and he particularly did not want to talk about him with this peat-eyed boy.
“What would you know about it?” Jude said acidly. “You’ve more interest in gambling than in honor.”
Anton arched an eyebrow, amused. “You could learn a thing or two from the card table. A good player knows when to cut his losses and walk away.”
Jude met his challenging gaze. “I will not give up on him.”
Anton cocked his head to the side. “Oh.” The weight of that one syllable settled over Jude, and he felt how Remzi must have felt facing off against Anton, waiting for him to turn over the last card between them. “So. It’s like that.”
Jude opened his mouth to respond and then sealed it shut again.
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
It was the question Jude had never allowed himself to ask. It was the question he’d heard in his father’s voice when he’d warned him not to choose Hector for the Guard. The one that had been reflected in Penrose’s eyes when she begged him not to go after him. The one that had hung between him and Hector on the roof of the mausoleum before Jude’s fall.
The Paladin didn’t fall in love. The oath was clear—duty to the Prophets before their countries, their livelihoods, their hearts. They never took lovers, and the sole exception to their sacred vow of chastity was the Ritual of Sacred Union, performed to produce an heir to the Weatherbourne line. Anything outside of that was a desecration of their vows, the same as if they’d abandoned their duty altogether.
“I’m not.” Jude’s throat was suddenly dry. “I’m—He’s—”
“Maybe you are better off keeping away from the card table,” Anton said. “You’re a shit bluffer.”
“It’s not like that,” Jude said swiftly. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. It’s—I have a duty. A purpose.”
A duty he’d abandoned. A purpose he’d failed. The words hung in the air, taunting him. Every accusation he’d leveled at Hector—that he’d let himself be distracted by emotion, that he lacked true devotion to the Prophet—was true of Jude, too. The Keeper of the Word didn’t fall in love, and the Keeper of the Word didn’t succumb to doubt.
But Jude had done both.
“Well, you’re right,” Anton said. “I don’t know anything about that. I don’t know about duty and purpose. But I know what people want. You may think you’re different, that you live by some special code that sets you apart, but everyone wants something, Jude. Even you.”
Anger flashed through Jude like a hot oil flame. Who was this boy, who presumed to know the truths of Jude’s heart better than his Guard, better than his father, better than Jude himself?
“All I want,” he said, his voice shaking with the effort of keeping it calm, “is to find Hector. To bring him back here, where he belongs.”
Anton did not blink or look away. He stared back at Jude, and it was almost like those dark eyes could see beneath his skin, beneath his flesh, beneath the bones of his ribs, to the lie that beat inside his chest.
The sound of footsteps striding down the hall stole Jude’s attention. He was relieved for the distraction, for the excuse to tear his eyes away from Anton.
But his relief tightened into fear. Jude counted five sets of footsteps, and they were quicker and more purposeful than the gait of drunken sailors stumbling to their beds.
“What is it?” Anton asked.
“Footsteps. Someone’s coming.”
Anton’s eyes darted to the door, and then he went still. A small tremor went through him, as though he’d just recalled a bad memory.
“Why do you look like you know who it is?”
Anton’s eyes were wide and terrified. “They’re here for me.”
“The Sentry?”
Anton shook his head, fear flickering across his face.
The footsteps drew nearer. Jude stood and crossed the room in three easy steps, his hand on the hilt of the Pinnacle Blade.
“Go out the window,” he told Anton. “I’ll hold them here and find you after.”
He wasn’t sure who the men outside the door were or what they wanted with Anton, but he didn’t question the instinct that told him to protect the boy. Anton had talked about real fear, and Jude could see that fear plainly in his eyes now.
Anton froze with one leg slung over the edge of the open window.
“Whatever happens,” Jude said, “I’ll protect you.”
Anton met Jude’s eyes across the candlelit room, staring at him like he could not quite comprehend the words.
The door burst open. Jude had never drawn the Pinnacle Blade before, but now he didn’t hesitate. It scraped free of its sheath with a surge of power that gusted through the room like a sudden windstorm. The five men standing in the doorway were blown back by its force.
For a moment, Jude stood still, stunned by the sword’s sheer power. He’d heard the tales of the Pinnacle Blade’s strength before, but he’d never felt it. The sword felt almost alive in his hands, thrumming through his Grace, strengthening and focusing it like a koah.
The men staggered back to th
eir feet, charging into the room. With the Pinnacle Blade in his hands, Jude leapt forward to meet them.
41
ANTON
The drop from the window was farther than Anton had anticipated in the dark. As his feet hit the rough limestone roof, his knees buckled.
Jude’s esha thundered through the air, flattening Anton. It surged over him, stronger than he had ever felt it. He lay there, disoriented, awash in the storm.
Run, his mind screamed at him, and he lurched to his feet, racing across the roof. His brother was here, somewhere. If not with the men that just burst into the room, then lurking somewhere outside. Beneath the tempest of Jude’s esha he could feel his brother’s, dissonant and jarring, like the sound of glass shattering. Unmistakable.
And he’d brought his hired swords, the same ones that had shown up at Anton’s flat. But Anton didn’t think his brother would have accounted for Jude. A few sell-swords were no match for a Grace as powerful as his.
Then again, this was Illya. Anton had learned early on not to underestimate his brother. Somehow, Anton always wound up at his mercy.
Anton dropped down to the next level of terraced rooftops, keeping to the shadows as he tried to think of a plan. If he left the Hidden Spring, he’d miss his best shot at getting out of Pallas Athos. He could circle back in the morning to meet up with Remzi and his crew—but who was to say that Illya wouldn’t be waiting with even more mercenaries?
He edged to the other side of the roof and then dropped down onto the walkway below. The marina, then. That was the only option. He had to make it there and hide out until the Black Cormorant set sail.
“Anton.” The hissed whisper stopped him in his tracks. He turned to find Ephyra standing at the top of a stairway. Surprise and relief flooded him.
“Ephyra?” he said. “You—How did you find me? How did you get out of the citadel?”
Her eyes flashed fiercely in the moonlight. “How did you?”
Guilt churned in his gut.
“I know Hector Navarro broke you out,” Ephyra said. “And I know he went after Beru. Tell me where they are.”
There Will Come a Darkness Page 27
