A few years ago, the Witnesses and their masked leader had taken up residence in an abandoned temple in the middle of the Seti desert—a temple older than even the Prophets. It was one of the few surviving remnants of an ancient religion, when people worshipped an all-powerful god of creation.
The Order of the Last Light was keeping an eye on the Hierophant’s activities and the rumors circulating around him. One rumor said the Hierophant had once been an acolyte who had renounced the Prophets and had begun preaching against them. Another said he had talked an entire squadron of Graced Herati soldiers into turning their swords on one another. According to his most fervent disciples, the Hierophant was so righteous, and so pure, that the Graced were rendered powerless simply by standing in the same room with him.
Jude and the rest of the Order doubted the truth of these rumors, but they had demonstrated the powerful nature of the Hierophant’s following. The Hierophant was not just a man with dangerous ideas—he had made himself into an idea, a new figure to worship and follow now that the Prophets were gone.
“None of us thought they would take one of the Six Cities,” Penrose said. “We underestimated just how fervently his followers believe his lies.”
“‘The deceiver ensnares the world with lies,’” Jude recited.
“‘To death’s pale hand the wicked fall,’” Penrose continued. “The bodies they’ve been finding marked with the pale handprint prove it. The first two harbingers are here. The Age of Darkness is approaching.”
“Then how can this be the right time for me to become Keeper?” He hadn’t exactly meant to voice the question—it had been bottled up in his mind since the moment he’d returned to Kerameikos. But once he asked, he knew he needed an answer. “Two of the three harbingers have arrived. They’re not just a warning of what’s to come. One of them—or all of them—could bring about the Age of Darkness. We need to find the Last Prophet before that happens, and it should be my father. Not me. Not now.”
“Or perhaps that is why your father wants to do this now,” Penrose said. “We’re running out of time. Our acolytes are searching for the signs, but we’ve heard nothing through the scrying network. Maybe your father has grown desperate enough to find a new approach.”
They crested the hill. Below, the spiral towers of Kerameikos Fort peeked out of pockets of mist trapped by the surrounding mountains. Waterfalls cascaded down from the face of a narrow gorge, flowing through the slender arches of the fortress’s crossings and bridges.
Jude took in the sight of his home as he contemplated Penrose’s words. “You think Father means to have me leave Kerameikos? To try to find the Prophet myself?”
With the exception of the Year of Reflection, when the Keeper of the Word’s heir apparent retreated alone into the Gallian Mountains to affirm his faith and his duty to the Seven Prophets, the Paladin hadn’t left Kerameikos Fort in a hundred years. But the Order was growing more desperate to find the Last Prophet. Maybe the only way to do it was for Jude and his Guard, once he chose them, to leave Kerameikos and find the Prophet themselves.
“Is that what you’re worried about?” Penrose asked. “Leaving Kerameikos?”
“No.” He was worried that if he left Kerameikos to find the Last Prophet, he would fail. Because despite what Penrose had said about it being the right time, about Jude’s doubts being expected, he knew she was wrong. His doubts had not begun when he learned that Nazirah had been taken, or when he’d heard about the Pale Hand murders.
They’d begun when he was sixteen and realized there were things he wanted that a Keeper of the Word could never have. When he’d first felt that ache that pressed on him in silent, lonely moments. When Jude would close his eyes, desperate for the warmth of another person, the touch of their skin. A Keeper should not desire skin and warmth and breath, but Jude did. And nothing, not all of his training, not his Year of Reflection, not a desperate prayer to the long-gone Prophets, had changed that.
They crossed over the bridge that led into the fort itself. Above, thin wooden planks crisscrossed the river’s banks, upon which Paladin balanced, silhouetted in the rising mist of the falls. Each of the Paladin wielded a long staff, which were used to parry, block, and attack one another. Some were perched as high as a tower, and some barely clear of the rushing water. A fall from the anchored beams would mean a watery death, but the Grace of Heart made the Paladin fleet-footed and sure, able to leap from one balanced plank to the next as they clashed in a dangerous dance.
“Then is it about choosing your Guard tomorrow?” Penrose asked. Her voice suddenly took on more urgency. “You know who you’ll choose, don’t you?”
It was every Keeper’s first crucial task to choose the six other Paladin who would serve by their side. The Guard would take a special oath that bound them in duty to Jude for the rest of their lives. To be chosen for the Guard—to serve as advisor and comrade to the Keeper—was the highest honor for a Paladin. It was also a great responsibility. Breaking the oath of the Paladin Guard meant more than exile—it meant death.
“Worried I won’t choose you?” Jude teased. He had always known Penrose would be one of his six. She’d known him since he was born, and though he’d been raised and taught by a number of different stewards and Paladin over the years, she was the one he was closest to. She’d been the one to teach Jude to control his Grace, coaching him through his koahs when he was still young. There was no family in the Order of the Last Light, but if there was, Penrose would be part of his.
“That’s not what I meant,” Penrose said, her voice taut with urgency. “I didn’t just come find you this evening to see how you were doing. I came to tell you something.”
Jude’s Grace-enhanced hearing could hear her heartbeat pick up. Unease prickled down his spine. “About choosing the Guard?”
“I just want to make sure that when the time comes, you’ll do what’s best. That you won’t let your judgment be clouded by—”
Jude didn’t hear what she said next. He heard sound and sensed motion behind him. Quicker than thought, he leapt to the side to evade the oncoming strike. A flash of movement was all he saw of his attacker, but it was more than enough. Using his Grace-enhanced reflexes, Jude rebounded off the pillar of the bridge and launched himself at the unknown figure. Digging his heels into the ground, he threw out his arm to aim a firm blow to the other man’s chest.
With a grunt, his attacker hit the ground.
“Well, I guess your reflexes haven’t completely gone to shit without me.”
Recognition struck Jude like a blade as he stared down at the person at his feet. Hector Navarro was no longer the reedy boy Jude had grown up with. His broad shoulders and chest tapered down to a trim waist and long, muscular legs. A shadow of hair now covered a jawline that had sharpened with time. But he wore the same infuriating, cocky smirk that had provoked a number of fights with the Order’s other young wards.
The smirk Jude hadn’t seen in over a year. The one he wasn’t sure he’d ever see again.
“You’re here,” Jude said faintly. This, he realized, was what Penrose had been working up to telling him.
But before he could summon any more words, or do anything besides drink in the sight of his friend, Hector leapt from the ground, spinning to face Jude. And then they were off again—blow for blow, Graced speed and strength facing off in a coordinated dance they’d taught each other the steps to years ago.
Laughter bubbled out of Jude unbidden as he ducked under Hector’s fist and swept a leg under him. Hector leapt at the precise right moment, knowing Jude’s move almost before he did. Their agile back-and-forth devolved into roughhousing and then to playful punches, and then their arms were locked around each other, somewhere between shoving and embracing.
“I don’t understand,” Jude said, voice light with adrenaline, laughter, and the weight of Hector’s broad hand on the back of his neck. “When I got back from my Year of Reflection, you were gone. The others all said you’d left, that you
’d decided not to take your oath.”
He didn’t add that none of them had been surprised by Hector’s departure. Hector had been a ward of the Order since he was thirteen, and his friendship with Jude had felt as inevitable as it was unlikely. Even as a young boy, Jude had striven to uphold the virtues instilled in him by the Order, while Hector had been more restless, more troublesome. While Jude cherished mornings spent in contemplative silence, long hours of training, and ascetic devotion to the Prophets, Hector had never seemed suited to the regimented life of a Paladin.
Though Hector had always said he would take up the cloak of the Order of the Last Light, some part of Jude had not believed it.
But now, Hector was here. He’d come back.
“I changed my mind,” Hector said. As though it could be that simple. His lips quirked in an easy, self-deprecating grin—the kind of smile that he’d used countless times to get Jude to go along with his schemes and antics against his better judgment. “I figured if Jude Weatherbourne believed in me, I had to be worth something.”
Jude shoved him again, and Hector batted his head down. Quickly they were swept back into their juvenile game. But it felt good to be playing it with Hector again, after all this time. As if all the worries about the Witnesses, the Pale Hand, the Prophet, could be wrenched from Jude’s shoulders by Hector’s capable hands.
“Penrose, tell Jude he needs to learn how to fight before he can be Keeper of the Word!” Hector called between gasps of laughter.
Jude glanced at Penrose and saw that she was no longer watching them with her well-practiced look of vague disapproval. Instead, she stood with her shoulders pulled back, gaze snapping to something behind him.
Jude did not need to turn to know that his father had arrived.
He sprang away from Hector and shot to Penrose’s side.
“Son,” Captain Weatherbourne said.
“Captain Weatherbourne,” Jude replied, still a little breathless from wrestling.
All the joy of the reunion receded under the weight of his father’s stare. Theron Weatherbourne was every bit as intimidating as he’d been in Jude’s childhood. He had the same stony face, but his hair had grown grayer in the past year. Like Penrose and Jude, he wore a midnight blue cloak swept across his broad chest, fastened to one shoulder by a pin inlaid with a seven-pointed star pierced by a blade. A golden torc wound around the back of his neck, clasped at his collar.
“I see you’ve been informed of Navarro’s return.” He nodded at Hector.
“Sir,” Hector said, bowing his head and touching his palm to his chest.
“Come, Jude,” Captain Weatherbourne said. “There’s something we must discuss.”
Apprehension tripped in Jude’s chest as Captain Weatherbourne swept away. It was rare for his father to seek him out like this. Theirs was a relationship based on duty rather than affection. The Paladin’s oath forbade them from having children, except for the Keeper of the Word, whose duty was to perform the Ritual of Sacred Union in order to produce an heir. Jude’s rearing had come primarily at the hands of Order stewards and Paladin, like Penrose.
Captain Weatherbourne kept a brisk pace as he led Jude up a steep pathway that wound through the fort, through ornate archways that mimicked the supple curves of the trees that stretched over them.
“Is this about Hector?” Jude asked. He recalled Penrose’s words of caution. It was clear she thought that Jude would choose him to serve on the Paladin Guard—and that she didn’t approve. His father probably felt the same.
“No,” Captain Weatherbourne replied. “But the fact that you think an errant ward of the Order should be your most important concern on the eve of your ceremony makes me think perhaps we should discuss the matter.”
Jude looked down, embarrassed.
“Hector hasn’t told anyone why he left the Order,” Captain Weatherbourne continued. “Nor, for that matter, why he returned. Nor, indeed, what he was doing while he was away.”
Jude knew there were so many unanswered questions about Hector, but he couldn’t deny that the sight of him back in Kerameikos Fort had felt like a breath of relief.
“I trust him,” Jude said quietly. “Whatever it was he was doing, whatever it was he had to figure out, he came back.” He came back to me.
Captain Weatherbourne glanced at him as they crossed another slender bridge, past a misting waterfall. Light fractured between them as Jude met his gaze. Tomorrow, he would take his father’s place as Keeper of the Word. If he was ready, truly ready, then that meant his decisions, his judgment, had to be trusted. Including his judgment about Hector.
Captain Weatherbourne shook his head. “We all swear the same oath. To give up worldly desires. To serve the Prophets above all else. Above our lives. Above our hearts.”
“I know,” Jude replied. “If Hector is here, that means he’s prepared to do that. I know it. He wouldn’t take it lightly.”
“I didn’t mean Hector.”
Blood rushed to Jude’s face. Shame cracked him open, exposing the softest, weakest parts within.
“Even when you were boys, it was clear you two had an attachment to each other,” Captain Weatherbourne said. “You kept your distance from the other wards, but not him.”
Jude’s mouth was dry. “You—you never said anything. You never—”
“You are hardly the first Paladin, or even the first Keeper of the Word, to have attachments,” Captain Weatherbourne went on. “That is what the Year of Reflection is for, after all. To rise above your doubts. So have you?”
Jude didn’t know how to answer.
“Tell me,” Captain Weatherbourne said. “Whose place would he take?”
“What do you mean?”
“You already know who you’ll choose for your Guard tomorrow,” Captain Weatherbourne said. “I know how you are. You’ve known since you returned from the mountains. Tell me which of those six names would you take off the list for Navarro?”
Jude was silent for a long moment. “None of them,” he said finally.
“Then you have your answer.”
The river thundered beneath them as they crossed to a high rock outcropping, upon which the Temple of the Prophets stood. Water flowed on every side of the temple rotunda, streaming down the face of the cliff. They ascended the stairs that fanned up to the entrance of the temple. At the main archway, they each paused to dip their fingers into the bowls of consecrating oil and anoint themselves before crossing the threshold.
There were seven open archways in the temple walls, surrounding a sanctum dominated by a large stone pool in the shape of a seven-pointed star. Around the pool, marble stairs led up to an altar of pale silver. The temple walls stretched high above, studded with stones of slate gray, tempest green, deep red, and midnight black, from pupil-sized to as big as Jude’s fist. They peered out at him like thousands of jeweled eyes. The oracle stones.
There were written copies of the prophecies in every library of the world, but only the Temple of the Prophets had the oracle stones themselves. Each of the stones had been cast into a scrying pool by one of the Prophets, preserving their visions of the future. Sometimes, these visions came as dreams; other times, as a prophetic trance. The oracle stones held the record of the prophecies that shaped the course of civilization and guided people through times of turmoil and strife.
Members of the Order of the Last Light were the trusted guardians of these prophecies, even now, one hundred years after the Seven Prophets disappeared. Even now that all their prophecies had been fulfilled.
All but one.
“Tomorrow is an important day, Jude. More than ever, you cannot be distracted,” Captain Weatherbourne said, climbing the stairs to the altar that stood above the scrying pool. He lifted the silver box that lay on the altar and returned to Jude’s side. He held the box out, and Jude, hesitating, opened it.
A smooth, pearlescent stone glowed softly inside. It was bigger than Jude’s fist and traced with intricate spirals. A large c
rack ran through it, almost cleaving the stone in two.
Jude put his hand over the stone reverently. This was the last oracle stone the Prophets had ever cast. It contained their final prophecy. The prophecy that had been kept secret by the Order of the Last Light for a century. The prophecy that was still incomplete.
“The prophecy is unfolding,” Captain Weatherbourne said. “The harbingers are here. The Age of Darkness is almost upon us. If we don’t find the Last Prophet soon…” He didn’t need to finish the thought.
Jude looked up from the oracle stone to his father’s face. “You are the Keeper of the Word, Father. If the prophecy is unfolding, if the Age of Darkness is upon us, they need you. When we find the Prophet, he’ll need someone experienced, someone knowledgeable, someone—”
“Enough,” Captain Weatherbourne said. “I have been Keeper of the Word for thirty-three years. I have protected the secret of the last prophecy, the same way the Keepers that came before me did. But I was never meant to be the one to wield the Pinnacle Blade and protect the Last Prophet.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My duty is complete,” Captain Weatherbourne said, eyes bright with some emotion Jude had never seen before. “I have produced an heir to the Weatherbourne line. You, Jude. You are the one who is meant to protect the Last Prophet. I knew it on that day, sixteen years ago, when the sky lit up.”
Jude shivered. He remembered that day, too. He could still remember the cold rub of the wind on his cheeks and how tiny he’d felt in the shadow of the monoliths. And above, the sky, lit like a glorious flame, ribbons of violet and red and gold shivering through it, their luminous dance calling out to the earth below. To those who knew the secret of the last prophecy, it was a day that had meant promise and hope. Promise that the Last Prophet had at last arrived to complete the final prophecy and show them how to stop the Age of Darkness.
In that moment, Jude had known, with a certainty that astonished him even now, that somehow, this bright, immense, enveloping thing was calling to him.
There Will Come a Darkness Page 5