As the Shadow Rises: Book Two of The Age of Darkness Page 5

  “What do you think of all this?” Hassan asked.

  “What do you mean?” Khepri asked. “This is exactly what we’ve been searching for. Somewhere safe to take the rest of the soldiers. Somewhere we can defend against the Witnesses. Regroup, and strike back. Just like you said, Hassan.”

  Hassan heard her words, the echo of his own. She was right. Of course she was right. But he couldn’t shake the strange unease he felt.

  “What do you think of Arash?” he asked.

  “He seems smart. Capable. Handsome,” she added with a smirk.

  Hassan snaked a hand around her waist. “Oh, really?” he said, tugging her toward him. “More handsome than me?”

  “Hmm,” Khepri said, pretending to think. “I’m not sure.”

  They hadn’t been alone and safe in so long. He remembered with some longing the heat between them when they’d kissed on the Cressida the night before they’d returned to Nazirah. The night when everything had begun to unravel.

  No. Hassan wouldn’t let thoughts of his aunt’s betrayal or the horror of the lighthouse ruin this moment. They were safe, in each other’s arms. They finally had a path forward.

  “Perhaps I should state my case, then,” Hassan said, brushing his hand against the side of Khepri’s face. Her eyes fluttered shut. He dipped his head toward hers, until their lips were only a breath away. “Who do you think is more handsome now?”

  “Kiss me already,” she breathed, not waiting for his reply before she clutched at his collar and pulled him down to her lips.

  Hassan let himself go, losing himself in the feeling of their bodies pressed together, his fingers in her hair. All the exhaustion, all the fear and the worry that had built up in them since the lighthouse fell seemed to pour out of them.

  A knock at the door had Khepri demurring, pulling away from Hassan. He chased her lips, not wanting to give up this moment together.

  “One second,” she called out, pressing his palm to his chest. She quickly smoothed down her hair, checked her clothes, and then went to the door.

  “Khepri.” It was Chike. Hassan could see Sefu just behind him. “We’re supposed to come get you. There’s food and drink up in the observatory. A celebration, of sorts, since we’ve found you.”

  “All right,” Khepri said. “We’ll be right along.”

  Chike hesitated in the doorway, his eyes darting past Khepri to where Hassan stood. Hassan was sure he looked much less puttogether than she did and had no doubt as to what conclusions Chike had drawn.

  Sefu leaned over his brother’s shoulder. “Perhaps we better give you more time to settle in?”

  Hassan flushed, but thankfully Chike dragged his brother away before he could say more.

  Khepri spun back to Hassan. “Don’t worry, they’re just teasing.” She let out a laugh. “Although, if we don’t go join them in the observatory, I can’t promise it will stay that way. Ready?”

  She held out her hand.

  Part of him wanted to beg Khepri to stay and continue where they’d left off. But they’d just arrived at the Scarab’s Wing hideout, and Hassan was itching to know more about these rebels. And in particular to know more about their leader.

  Hassan took her hand. “Lead the way.”

  5

  ANTON

  ANTON DREAMED, BUT NO LONGER DID THE LAKE, THE ICE, HAUNT HIS NIGHTS. The darkness that had swallowed him a thousand times on a thousand different nights did not open its maw to him anymore.

  Now, Anton dreamed of light. The cold, white light of the Godfire flames licking out from the top of a tower by the sea. He dreamed of arms locked around him, wind rushing past, and that light shattering the sky as he and Jude plunged into the sea.

  He dreamed of a face, covered by a gilded mask, wreathed in pale flames.

  He dreamed of a red sky. Red like blood, red like flames, red like fury.

  Anton opened his eyes with a gasp.

  Warm water sloshed over him. The blue sky streaked with clouds greeted him, bracketed by vine-covered columns.

  “What did you see?”

  Anton startled at the sound of Penrose’s low, melodious voice. He sat up, water sloughing off him, and let his gaze find the Paladin at the edge of the pool.

  “The lighthouse again,” he answered after a moment, wading toward her.

  Penrose’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Nothing else?”

  Just the nausea of falling, the searing flash of lightning behind his eyes, and the pounding of Jude’s heart against his ear.

  “No,” he said.

  It had been over a week since they’d arrived at Kerameikos, the secret mountain fortress of the Order of the Last Light. Every day, Anton came here, to the scrying pool that overlooked the river, trying to conjure the vision he’d seen twice before in his life—the first time as a child, a memory he’d repressed, and again just over a week ago, after his brother had nearly tortured him to death. Illya had tried to use Anton as a pawn to win the trust of the Hierophant and the Witnesses, almost drowning Anton so he would reveal what was in his vision. But Jude had rescued him before Illya could succeed and they’d escaped—diving off the lighthouse and into the sea.

  Only under the water, on the brink of death, had Anton been able to remember.

  Now, he drowned, again and again, searching for some clue that would tell him how to avoid the destruction his vision promised.

  “We’re getting nowhere with this,” Penrose said, her voice edged with frustration. “We need to make sure you’re ready for tomorrow’s test.”

  “Why do I need to do this?” Anton asked, pulling himself out of the water and onto a nearby stone. “I fit all the signs. I told them what I saw. If they don’t want to believe that I’m the Prophet, then that’s their problem.”

  “The Order has grown cautious after what happened in Pallas Athos. When we—”

  “Thought that the Prince of Herat was the Last Prophet and then let him drag everyone to Nazirah because of a fake vision, and then you all almost got killed, I know, I know,” Anton said, grabbing the towel from her and drying himself off.

  Penrose’s lips thinned.

  The thing was, Anton didn’t necessarily care if the rest of the Order believed he was the Prophet. If they decided they’d been mistaken yet again, they might kick him out of Kerameikos—and, as far as he was concerned, that wasn’t exactly a terrible option if it meant he’d no longer have to suffer the torture of reliving his vision. And if they really were wrong—well then that would mean Anton’s vision would never come to pass.

  “We’re just being careful,” Penrose said.

  “Careful as in making me scry in the Circle of Stones to prove I’m the Prophet?”

  “I explained it to you before,” Penrose said, sounding less patient. “There are certain places in the world where the Prophets’ powers of foresight were more in tune. The Circle of Stones at Kerameikos is one of them. The Stones will react to your Grace the same way they did to the other Prophets.”

  Anton rubbed the towel through his wet hair. He wasn’t looking forward to this test—this trial—at all. He’d thought, now that he knew the vision that had haunted him nearly his whole life, he wouldn’t panic every time he used his Grace. But if anything, the panic was getting worse. Just the thought of seeing his vision again, of reliving that nightmare, made his chest clench with terror. He dreaded these scrying sessions, dreaded the long stretch of daylight with nothing to do except think about the terrible possibilities in his head.

  Jude may have rescued him from Illya’s torture, but was this really so different?

  A stab of resentment twinged in Anton’s chest at the thought of the swordsman. He hadn’t seen Jude since they’d arrived in Kerameikos. The moment they’d pulled into the harbor, the Order had convened a Tribunal to inquire about what had happened to the wayward member of the Paladin Guard, Hector Navarro. They’d whisked Jude away for questioning, barring anyone—and Anton in particular—from speaking to him. />
  It wasn’t Jude’s fault, but Anton couldn’t help but blame him anyway, though his resentment tangled with worry. He’d felt Jude’s Grace on the ship on the way back from Nazirah. Before, his Grace had been as loud and unrelenting as a storm. Now, it trembled like a faint breeze. He’d stopped himself from asking Penrose about it too many times to count. He didn’t know what Jude had told the rest of the Paladin about how the Godfire had affected him. And if he wanted to keep that secret, Anton wouldn’t expose him.

  He refocused on Penrose. “You know what I saw in my vision. A shadow will cover the sun. The Six Cities will fall. A plague, a storm of fire, a river of blood, the cracking earth—”

  “Yes, I know,” Penrose said sharply.

  “And nothing,” Anton said after a beat, “that says how to stop any of those things from happening.”

  “There’s a way,” Penrose said. “There must be a way.”

  “Whatever I see will come to pass,” Anton said. “If I’m really the Prophet, that’s how this works, isn’t it? Prophecies always come true. Something is coming, Penrose, and there’s no dodging it, changing it, or stopping it.”

  “To bring the age of dark to yield,” Penrose said. “Those were the words of the Seven Prophets’ last prophecy.”

  “Or break the world entire,” Anton returned. “That’s the part you all always seem to forget.”

  Penrose’s eyes darkened. “What do you know about the other prophecies, Anton? The other Prophets?”

  Anton shrugged. Here he was, the first Prophet this world had seen in over a century, and he knew next to nothing about the ones who had come before him. It obviously bothered Penrose, and the rest of the Guard, but Anton couldn’t bring himself to care.

  “Come,” Penrose said, turning on her heel to exit the courtyard.

  Anton bit back a groan and followed.

  They wound their way through the fort. Living at Kerameikos wasn’t all bad—the grounds were lovely, tucked between the mountains and bathed in mist from the surrounding waterfalls.

  And it was safe. That he was sure of. After nearly seven years of constant scrapping and scavenging whatever he could—food, clothes, affection—it certainly felt different to be somewhere where he didn’t have to wonder where his next meal was coming from, or decide what he was willing to give up just to find a place to sleep that night.

  The back of Anton’s neck prickled as they neared the edge of the fort, tucked against the side of the mountain. A stone staircase wound up and around the mountain face. The twinge spread up his neck and into his head, throbbing. He stopped, clutching at his head with one hand.

  “Are you all right?” Penrose asked, concern evident in her voice as she stopped beside him.

  Anton sucked in a breath. “Just my head,” he managed. He pointed to the stone stairs. “Where does that lead?”

  “The Circle of Stones,” she replied.

  Anton’s hand fell away from his head as he craned his neck to look up. He couldn’t see the Circle from here, but the knowledge that it was up there sent a chill spiking down his spine.

  Penrose frowned but continued past the stairs until they arrived at a building tucked against the mountainside. Thin, ornate columns welcomed them onto stone steps leading up to a tapered arch that opened into the atrium of the building. A glass-plated ceiling cast light onto the pale stone floor.

  “Where are we?” Anton asked as Penrose walked up to a pair of stone doors and placed her hand on a square that jutted out.

  The doors groaned, opening inward to reveal a cavernous room lined with shelves as tall as three men. Soft amber light suffused the room, although there were no windows. Instead, sunlight filtered through each marble brick in the walls.

  “This is the Order’s archives,” Penrose replied. “Where we keep all the documents pertaining to every prophecy of the Seven Prophets—when they were made, their interpretations, their outcomes.”

  They stepped into the cavernous room, and Anton wondered just how many people had devoted their lives to writing down every detail of these prophecies. Enough to fill this entire room.

  A slender woman wearing a dark gray cloak came toward them, writing something down in a journal as she walked.

  “Good afternoon,” Penrose said.

  The woman slapped the journal shut and looked up at them.

  By now, Anton was used to the stares he got from the people of Kerameikos—awe with a hint of fear. Like he wasn’t a person, but a savior. It reminded him too much of the way his grandmother had treated him, not like a child but like something she could use to reclaim her family’s legacy.

  It made him lonelier than he’d ever been, lonelier than he’d felt growing up with a family who didn’t love him, lonelier than when he’d survived on the streets by himself.

  “We are honored by your presence at the archives,” the archivist said, recovering herself. “What is it you hope to find here?”

  “We want to learn more about who the Prophets were,” Penrose said.

  Anton glanced away. He did want to know more about the Prophets—who they actually were, which he didn’t think he’d find in any records. To the Order, the Prophets were infallible. But he knew now that wasn’t true—that the stories were just stories. Because he was a Prophet, and he was anything but infallible.

  The archivist looked a little surprised by the request. “Where would you like to begin?”

  Anton opened his mouth to reply before Penrose could. “I want to know about the prophecies that didn’t come true. The ones that turned out to be wrong.”

  The archivist stared at him, a new expression on her face. Shock, and a hint of anger. “There’s just one.”

  “You mean the prophecy about Emperor Vasili,” Anton said.

  “You know it.” It wasn’t a question.

  It was the only prophecy, aside from the final one, he knew all the way through. His grandmother had made him learn it when he was six, certain that Anton would be the one to prove it wrong. To prove that the Prophets were wrong, that her grandfather’s legacy would outlive them.

  The archivist led them down one of the aisles and reached into the shelf to draw out a thick brown manuscript bound with leather. She handed it to Anton. “These are the writings of Emperor Vasili. We have the original copies—well, most of them.”

  Anton took the manuscript and leafed through the pages. The beginning of the booklet was written in neat Novogardian script, each section dated. They seemed to describe various military plans and notes on who, if any, of Vasili’s advisors were to be trusted.

  Anton flipped toward the end. Here, the text was messier, as if written by a shaking hand, and broken up seemingly at random. Scanning a few pages, Anton couldn’t make much sense of the writing. Gone was the careful, almost methodical notetaking, replaced by nonsensical raving.

  The shadow creeps closer each day.

  I know He wants to speak to me. He visits my dreams.

  What the Seven did can never be undone. Their sin has stained the world and we all suffer for it. Myself most of all.

  The Stone calls out to me. It knows that it was stolen, it wants to punish me for the sins of the Seven.

  The light is beautiful and terrible. It wants to consume me. It wants to consume all of us. It is consuming me, burning out everything and leaving nothing but ash.

  “This is the last page?” Anton asked, looking up.

  The archivist nodded. “That one was written days before he took his own life. It may be the last thing he ever wrote.”

  “What does it mean?” Anton asked. “What is that light he talks about?”

  The archivist shook her head. “Vasili was far gone by then. He was afflicted with terrible headaches that put him into fits for days. The light, they say, is an effect of those headaches.”

  Anton shivered. He didn’t think it was just an effect of headaches. The way Vasili described the light sounded almost exactly like the light in Anton’s vision.

 
“You said he took his own life,” Anton said. “How did he do it?”

  “You don’t know?” the archivist asked.

  Anton shook his head. His grandmother had loved talking about her grandfather Emperor Vasili, but she refused to ever mention what happened to him after he was defeated. As if she could erase that part of his legacy by never speaking of it.

  The archivist looked at him sadly. “He drowned himself.”

  6

  EPHYRA

  SHARA WAS WAITING FOR HER OUTSIDE THE GAMBLING HALL THE NEXT morning.

  “Are you ready to meet the rest of the crew?” she asked as Ephyra approached.

  “Crew?” Ephyra repeated.

  Shara raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t think I became the world’s greatest thief by myself, did you?”

  It hadn’t really occurred to Ephyra that there was a whole team to aid the Thief King. She couldn’t hide the discomfort on her face. The Pale Hand was used to working alone.

  “You’ll like them, I promise.” Shara paused. “Well. Like is a strong word. But we need them. Come on.”

  She pushed open the door, leading Ephyra inside. This early in the day, the gambling hall was devoid of patrons. There appeared to be only one other person inside, a server standing behind the bar, stacking clay cups. As they neared, Ephyra realized it was the same server she had spoken to the night before.

  “Shar!” he cried, his cheeks dimpling as he spotted her. Catching sight of Ephyra behind her, his expression morphed to confusion. “Who’ve you brought?”

  Shara jerked her head at Ephyra. “Ephyra, this is Hayu. He owns this shop. Hayu, this is Ephyra. She’s, ah . . . looking for something.”

  Hayu’s eyes lit with understanding. “Oh, the new job.”

  Shara leaned her elbow on the bar. “Hayu’s like the mom of our household. We stay upstairs when we’re in town to rest and regroup.” She turned to him. “Where is everyone?”

  He opened his mouth to reply when the sound of two loud, overlapping voices cut him off.