There Will Come a Darkness

by Katy Rose Pool

  He drew in breath and stepped forward, looking out at the sea of faces before him. “As captain of the Paladin Guard, it is my duty to call to service the six Paladin who will join me as guardians of the Last Prophet. I call Moria Penrose.”

  Penrose emerged from the crowd, striding between the great stones of the inner circle before coming to a stop in front of Jude. She knelt there, presenting her sheathed sword to him.

  “Moria Penrose, I hereby name you servant of the Word and guardian of the Last Prophet,” Jude said, taking her sword and unsheathing it, laying the flat of the blade on her shoulder. “Your duty to the Prophet shall be your life, for you shall not live if you do not serve. Do you swear to uphold this holy duty?”

  “I do swear.”

  Captain Weatherbourne secured a silver torc around her neck and then spoke again. “Rise and take your place beside the Keeper of the Word.”

  Next was Andreas Petrossian, the oldest of the Paladin Jude had chosen, known for his blunt honesty and practical mind. After Petrossian came Yarik and Annuka, a brother and sister who had joined the Order after their tribe on the Inshuu steppe slowly broke apart. Both were deadly fighters alone, but it was their power together that made them truly unstoppable.

  The fifth to join the Guard was Bashiri Osei, a giant of a man who, like Hector and so many others, had grown up as a ward of the Order, finding new purpose and place after a childhood marked by suffering.

  And then it was time for Jude to make his last choice, to call the final member of the Guard who would stand beside him as he faced his destiny. He looked out at the crowd and let his gaze linger on Hector, his thoughts turning back to a time that felt as long ago and as far off as if it had been another life.

  It was the last night they’d had together, on the eve of the day Jude had left to start his Year of Reflection. Hector had stolen a jug of wine from the Order’s storerooms, and he and Jude had snuck out of the fort and onto the Andor Bridge, overlooking the river.

  They had talked and joked and goaded each other, until finally Hector had turned and asked, his eyes bright, “What would you do if you could do anything you wanted? If you didn’t become Keeper of the Word. If you were just some nobody somewhere.”

  Had anyone else in his life ever asked Jude this question, he would have considered it nothing short of a betrayal of the Order. He had one purpose in this life, and even at eighteen, about to be on his own and away from his father and the Paladin for the first time, he knew he must devote himself to it completely. But though his destiny was the only future ahead of him, it had still felt far off, a beacon glowing faintly in the distance. And something in the way Hector had smiled in the soft moonlight, and the way they’d held themselves close at the edge of the bridge made Jude say, “I’d go to the oasis of Al-Khansa. I’d drink pomegranate wine and ride elephants and send blue lily blossoms into the flooding river.”

  He hadn’t known where it had come from. He had certainly never thought he’d possessed any deep longing to cross the world to Al-Khansa. Frankly, the idea of being near an elephant rather frightened him. But somehow, grinning at Hector, it had seemed like the only answer he could possibly give.

  “What about you?” he’d asked.

  Hector had laughed, deep and full-throated. “I’d go with you, of course.”

  He had never forgotten that moment on the bridge, and the way Hector had cast his future with Jude’s. As if it were always meant to be that way. Al-Khansa was a foolish fantasy, but the thought of Hector at his side was not.

  Jude had told his father that there was no one on his list he would replace with Hector, and that had been the truth. Because there was no sixth name. There was only an empty place that Jude had kept open in the hope he would one day fill it with the person who had been at his side from the start.

  He took a breath and spoke the final name. “I call Hector Navarro.”

  Hector’s expression was hidden from Jude as he stepped out from the crowd and came to kneel before him as the others had. The conferring words, now spoken softly to the crown of Hector’s head, held the weight of real questions.

  Jude’s heartbeat quickened as he reached the end. “Do you swear to uphold this holy duty?”

  Hector looked up, his eyes meeting Jude’s. The moment hung between them, breathless, vast.

  Then Hector spoke. “I do swear.”

  He rose, and Jude’s father secured the silver torc around his neck, marking him as the sixth and final member of the Paladin Guard.

  “Rise, and take your place beside the Keeper of the Word.”

  Hector did.

  Over Hector’s shoulder, Jude’s father’s face was troubled. But no matter what his father thought, Jude knew that Hector belonged there, at his side, for the rest of their lives. He couldn’t have chosen anyone else.

  His father broke his gaze, looking out at the rest of the Paladin. “The seven guardians of the Last Prophet stand before you, the new Paladin Guard called to take their place beside the Keeper of the Word. Raise your swords and pledge your faith in them.”

  A sea of blades lifted to the sky.

  Jude glanced beside him, Penrose on his left and Hector on his right. And ahead the Prophet, the City of Faith, and their destiny.

  10

  EPHYRA

  The crypt shouldn’t have been empty.

  Ephyra stood in the rotted doorway. No matter how many times she swept her eyes over the cold stone floors and moth-eaten sheets, Beru never materialized.

  It was almost midmorning. This was when Ephyra normally returned from training or scouting her next victim. They usually ate breakfast together, tossing chunks of flatbread for the other to catch with her mouth, arguing over who was the better pickpocket. (It was Beru.) Sometimes, Beru would leave early for the market to sell the jewelry she’d made, but all of her beads, shells, and other trinkets were still on the table.

  Beru was nowhere to be found. If Ephyra didn’t know for a fact that Anton had been holed up in some seedy taverna in the marina district, she would be convinced that he’d led the Sentry straight to them. Her stomach plummeted as she pictured it—swordsmen barging into the crypt in the middle of the night and hauling Beru away. But there were no signs of struggle in the crypt, and nothing upstairs in the mausoleum had been out of place, either.

  And then came the other fear—the one that Ephyra tried desperately to bury each time it rose. The fear that no one had come for Beru. That she was gone because she’d chosen to leave.

  “Sweet Endarra, you scared me!”

  Ephyra whirled at the sound of her sister’s voice, heart pounding.

  Beru stood halfway down the secret staircase. “What are you doing just standing there, Ephyra?” she demanded, trotting down the rest of the way and brushing past her sister to go inside.

  “What am I doing?” Ephyra retorted. “What are you doing? I came back, and you weren’t here!”

  Beru unhooked her small coin purse and shrugged out of her overcoat. “I’m not allowed to go outside now?”

  “We always tell each other when we go out,” Ephyra said, circling the table to face her sister. “That’s the rule.”

  Beru leveled her with a perfect icy stare, and Ephyra realized she’d made a mistake.

  “Oh, is it?” Beru said. “Is that the rule you’ve been following when you’ve been staying out all hours of the day and sneaking out every night? I honestly didn’t think you’d notice I was gone, what with how little I’ve seen you these past few days.”

  “I—That’s different,” Ephyra argued feebly. “I was just—”

  “Save it for someone who hasn’t listened to your horseshit for the last sixteen years,” Beru said. “I know what you’re doing. You’re tracking that scryer you kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?” Ephyra protested. “Don’t you mean rescued?”

  Beru was not amused. “Are you still following him?”

  “It’s possible I’ve checked up on him once or twice,” Eph
yra said. The night Anton had left, she’d followed him down to the marina district, where he’d entered a dilapidated taverna that stank of fish and smoke and sweat. That had been four days ago, and she’d yet to see him emerge. “It’s just to make sure he hasn’t told anyone about us.”

  Beru’s lips drew together.

  “I’m not going to hurt him,” Ephyra said. “But we can’t just let him go and hope he keeps quiet. We have to be ready if someone else finds out about us. We’ve already drawn too much attention to ourselves. It’s not just the Sentry that worries me. The Witnesses are all around this city. I’ve heard them say the Pale Hand is an abomination. I don’t even want to think about what they might do if they found out about you.”

  “I get it. I don’t think he would tell anyone about us, but I get why you’re worried. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” She heaved a sigh, throwing her overcoat across the table. As it landed, an envelope slid out of the pocket. A cream-colored sheet of paper fluttered to the ground.

  Ephyra stooped to pick it up.

  “Wait, Ephyra—”

  But it was too late.

  “Train tickets?” Ephyra said, staring down at the paper in her hand. Her disbelief grew when she saw the destination. “You bought train tickets to Tel Amot? Why?”

  Slowly, Beru raised her eyes. “I think we should leave.”

  “You want to give up.”

  “There’s nothing to give up on,” Beru protested, plucking the tickets from Ephyra’s hand. “Pallas Athos was a dead end. We came here to find the scryer, but he can’t help us. There’s no reason to stay.”

  “And you think going back there, to Tel Amot, isn’t a dead end?” Ephyra replied incredulously. “Of all the places you could have chosen—”

  “What if we’re not meant to find the Chalice?” Beru said. She lowered her gaze immediately, as though she wished she hadn’t said it.

  Ephyra flinched like she’d been struck. “What are you talking about?”

  “What if…”

  “What if what?” The words came out as a challenge. There were things she suspected that Beru thought about, things that neither of them wanted to say out loud. Things that Ephyra feared more than the Sentry, more than the Witnesses.

  “I don’t know,” Beru said, her voice going high, like she was trying not to break into tears. “Mom and Dad never wanted you to use your Grace, remember?”

  Ephyra remembered. Her parents hadn’t reacted well when her Grace manifested. Beru had been dazzled by it—Ephyra discovering she could revive the drooping plants in the yard and mend the wing of a fallen sparrow. But she still recalled her mother and father’s ashen-faced expressions as they gently told her not to tell anyone else in the village about what she could do.

  Beru wore the same expression now.

  “What’s your point?” Ephyra asked.

  Beru let out a breath, her whole body going slack. “Maybe … Maybe the Witnesses are right. What we’re doing is unnatural. Using your Grace to keep me alive when we both know—”

  “No,” Ephyra said sharply, and Beru fell silent, her eyes widening at her sister’s harsh tone. “The Witnesses are wrong. They just want to scare the Graced because they’re terrified of us. It has nothing to do with me, or with you, or what we’ve done.”

  Beru’s grip tightened on the train tickets. “Ephyra—”

  “We’re going to find Eleazar’s Chalice, Beru,” Ephyra barreled on. “We’re going to cure you. We didn’t come this close only to give up.”

  Beru called out after her, but Ephyra was already out the door. Anton was the only person who could help them, and Ephyra knew exactly where to find him.

  This time, she wouldn’t let him refuse.

  11

  ANTON

  Anton’s luck had run out.

  The beady-eyed sailor across from him was silent, his twice-broken nose nearly purple with anger. Exhaling noisily, the sailor threw his cards down and slapped the table. “Admit you cheated!”

  Two of the man’s crewmates stepped up behind Anton, close enough that he could smell the valerian smoke on their clothes and the stink of wine on their breath. Anton drummed his fingers over his own cards. Three aces and a poet of crowns beamed up, declaring his overwhelming victory.

  He had spent four wine-soaked days in the dusty parlor of this taverna, charming and gambling the coin out of men like this one. It was a poor substitute for the after-hours game at Thalassa, but Anton couldn’t return there, not now that he knew Illya was looking for him.

  Besides, he was used to making do. He needed something to distract him from the nightmare that lurked at the edge of his mind. The past few nights, since he’d tried to scry in the burned-out mausoleum, the dream had only gotten worse. He woke up choking. Everywhere he looked, he saw his brother’s face.

  But there was nothing like a few rounds of canbarra to clear his mind—and fill his purse. A few hands more, and he would have what he needed to leave Pallas Athos for good.

  If he didn’t get himself killed first.

  Anton glanced at the large sailors from the corner of his eye. “You’re right,” he said with a sigh. “Playing against someone so wildly outmatched is unfair. I apologize for not realizing just how stupid you really are.”

  There was a moment of dead silence, and then his opponent lunged across the table. Anton leapt up, and at the same time, his opponent’s crewmate yanked him back by the collar.

  Anton held up his hands. “What,” he said mildly, “stupid and no sense of humor?”

  His opponent planted his hands on the table, spreading his arms to make himself look larger. He leaned forward. “You think you’re so smart, but you’re just a dirty little cheat.” Spittle flew from between yellowed teeth, landing wetly on Anton’s cheek.

  Anton shut his eyes.

  “Now,” the man said slowly, “how about a real apology?”

  Anton heard their rumbling laughter, punctuated with hacking coughs, and felt hot, moist breath against his neck. He tried not to squirm as his mind conjured another image from the depths of his memories—his brother leaning over him, breath on the back of Anton’s neck as he pressed him into the ground.

  I’m not letting you go until you say you’re sorry. Say you’re sorry, Anton.

  “You should take your hands off him if you want to keep them,” a voice said, cold and cutting in the din of the parlor. A familiar esha, like the ripple of a moth’s wings, hit Anton.

  “Who the shit are you?” the sailor growled, whirling.

  Anton peered around the man’s broad form to take in the sight of Ephyra standing before them, flicking her dagger idly in the low light.

  “Trust me,” she said. “You don’t want the answer.”

  The man turned to stare down at Anton.

  “You really don’t,” he confirmed.

  And this was what finally snapped the man from anger to violence. With a growl, he swiped a meaty fist at Anton. Anton ducked, but the fist caught him below the jaw and sent him sprawling back onto a chair, which flipped over and crashed to the floor.

  “What in the Six Cities do you think you’re doing?” another voice roared. Anton glanced up to find the proprietor of the card parlor standing like a hulking beast in the doorway. “Break any more of my furniture, and I’ll break your face.”

  “I’d like to see you try!” the sailor bellowed.

  A glass of brown ale flew across the room, shattering against the doorframe where the proprietor stood. Chaos erupted. Anton clambered to his knees in an effort to crawl away to safety, but his opponent spotted him and cried, “Get the little cheat!”

  A foot caught Anton in the gut, and he let out a wheeze of pain. That was a bruised rib or two, at least. He rolled to the side as a man’s boot came crunching down onto the floor.

  A hard yank on the back of his tunic, and Anton was on his feet. Ephyra kept her hand clenched around his tunic as she deftly wove through the raucous cardroom—b
y now, some of the other players, drunk and unable to distinguish friend from foe, had turned on one another.

  At last, Ephyra pulled Anton behind a stairwell, hidden from view.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her brown eyes blazing in the dim light. “That looked bad.”

  Anton touched his three fingers to the tender, swelling underside of his jaw. “I’ve had worse nights.”

  “Nights?” she echoed. “It’s not even noon.”

  Anton blinked, taking in the dusty sunlight streaming under the door that led out to the marina.

  “Oh,” he said. In this part of the city, sailors and wanderers turned up at all hours. Each day he’d spent trying to get lost here had bled into the next.

  “You’re in that bad of shape, huh?”

  “I’m fine.” So he’d lost track of time. What did that matter?

  “You haven’t been sleeping.”

  Realizing she was still holding on to his tunic, he primly plucked her hand off. “I said, I’m fine.”

  “And would you have been fine if that guy and his friends shattered you like that glass?” she asked. “Either you’re actually that stupid, or you’re out here looking for trouble.”

  “Doesn’t concern you either way, does it?”

  She sighed. “Kid, come on. Come back to the crypt with me and we’ll get you sorted out.”

  His jaw tightened. “I’m not—I’m not going back there.”

  “We can talk about your … whatever that was with your scrying later. For right now, you need to—”

  But Anton did not hear the rest of her sentence. Everything, from the sound of Ephyra’s voice to the din of the sailors still fighting in the other room, seemed to fade into the background as a pulse of esha flowed through him like a sudden gale.