He let the statement hang there.
“But you are an heir,” Emir said. “And not yet seventeen. There is still time for your Grace to manifest.”
Hassan’s mouth went dry. He’d spent years trying to drive such thoughts from his head, thinking them a foolish fantasy. To have that fantasy suddenly dangled in front of him again after all this time was agonizing.
“By the time my father was twelve,” Hassan said, “he was creating locks that could be opened by voice and a clock that predicts the weather. My mother was nine when she discovered she could lift a man thrice her size. It’s too late for me.”
“I don’t think that’s the case,” the copper-haired Paladin said. “The Grace of Sight tends to manifest later than the other Graces.”
That was true, and something Hassan had considered often. He’d always assumed, however, that the Grace of Sight was simply more difficult to detect than the other Graces, and thus more likely to go unnoticed for longer. But maybe there was more to it than that.
“Some scholars even say that the Prophet Nazirah, the very founder of your homeland, was sixteen when she received her first vision,” the copper-haired Paladin went on.
“Your Grace,” Captain Weatherbourne said abruptly. “The acolytes of our Order have been searching for the Last Prophet for a hundred years. Never in that time have we encountered anyone who fit the signs as you do. We would not have come all this way if we didn’t believe it was you.”
The other Paladin were all staring at Hassan, their expressions certain and unwavering. In the face of their palpable belief, his doubt began to waver.
“And what do you intend to do now that you’re here?” he asked.
“We intend to keep you safe,” Captain Weatherbourne said. “To wait for you to fulfill the prophecy and show us how to stop the Age of Darkness.”
“The Age of Darkness,” Hassan said. “What is it?”
Captain Weatherbourne hesitated, glancing at the other members of the Guard before he forged on. “The end of the Graced.”
“And with it, the destruction of our civilization,” the copper-haired Paladin woman said. “When the Prophets disappeared, there were decades of turmoil that followed. Wars broke out between allied cities. Disease and natural disasters followed. In the past, the people of the Six Prophetic Cities could weather these hardships, because the prophecies let them anticipate what was to come. But without the Prophets, the world panicked.”
Hassan nodded. He knew all this, had read extensively on the history of the past century. Even Herat, one of the most stable regions, had experienced this upheaval. His grandmother’s rule had begun with the kingdom near rebellion.
“Still, none of that compares to what will happen if the Graced are gone, too,” the Paladin continued. “No one with the Grace of Blood to heal the sick and injured. No one with the Grace of Mind to keep lights aglow and trains running and messages sent from one city to another. No one with the Grace of Heart to protect the weak. It will be chaos, a thousand times the magnitude of what had happened when the Prophets left.”
And in the midst of that chaos would be the perfect time for a ruthless despot to seize power. Especially one as charismatic and shrewd as the Hierophant.
Hassan’s heart sank. “The end of the Graced,” he said. “Isn’t that what the Witnesses want? Are you saying that the Hierophant’s plan—what they call the Reckoning—is real?”
Captain Weatherbourne bowed his head. “We think so. Whatever the Hierophant is planning is what the Prophets saw in their final prophecy.”
“But how do you know that?”
“Because it’s already beginning,” Captain Weatherbourne said. “The prophecy speaks of three things that can bring about the Age of Darkness. A Deceiver, the Pale Hand of Death, and one who would rise from the dust.”
“We believe the Deceiver is the Hierophant himself,” the copper-haired Paladin said. “He has convinced his followers that the Prophets were wicked and that the Graced must be destroyed. His followers have committed hundreds of horrific acts in his name—burning down shrines, desecrating temples, even killing Graced children. All based on the lies he tells them.”
“And the Pale Hand,” Hassan said, recalling the murder Lethia had mentioned the other afternoon. The one that had spooked the priests and the Archon so badly. “I’ve heard of that. Bodies turning up marked by a pale handprint. That’s part of the prophecy, too?”
Captain Weatherbourne nodded. “All of these things are connected. All of them mean that the last prophecy is unfolding. One of them, or perhaps all of them together, will bring about the Age of Darkness.”
“What about the Witnesses?” Hassan asked. “Do they know that their Reckoning was predicted by the Prophets? Does the Hierophant?”
“No,” Captain Weatherbourne replied. “The Order has kept the prophecy a secret to all but its own sworn members. No one else in the world knows what the Prophets saw before they disappeared.”
Anger flared in Hassan’s gut. “But if you’ve known this would happen—if you knew this Age of Darkness was coming—why did you keep it a secret?”
“It was a choice made by the Keeper of the Word after the Prophets disappeared,” Captain Weatherbourne answered. “She knew that if the prophecy were common knowledge, the Last Prophet would not be safe. Others would search for him. So she chose to keep the contents of the prophecy secret, until the Order of the Last Light could find the Prophet. Could find you.”
“And now that you’ve found me?”
“The prophecy must be completed.”
Hassan shook his head. “But what does that mean?”
“There is a reason that this prophecy is the last one. It was the last thing the Prophets could see,” Captain Weatherbourne replied. “Their powers of Sight extended only as far as our present time. Beyond that, they were as blind as the rest of us. They could see the Age of Darkness, but not how to stop it. Only you can see that.”
Hassan recalled what Khepri had said to him the first night in the refugee camps. That Prince Hassan was going to take back his country from the Witnesses. He had doubted himself then, and he doubted himself now. He was supposed to be a prince, not a Prophet. How could he set the world right again when he could not even defend his own country?
“But how do I see it?” he asked.
“The Prophets each received their visions in their own way,” the copper-haired Paladin said. “Some in dreams. Some in trances. The visions of the Prophets are rarely predictable. They come when the time is right—not before, and not after. Fate does not reveal its hand quickly.”
“So we just wait,” Hassan said, his voice dulling. He was tired of waiting. “And what if it never comes?”
“It will,” Captain Weatherbourne said firmly. “I know this must be a lot to take in right now. Particularly so soon after you had to flee your country. But know that we left Kerameikos Fort to be here. To protect you. Each of us swore an oath that we would serve you. That is what we’ve come here to do.”
The swordsman’s words grated on him. The Order claimed they served him, but they said nothing of his people. “And if I were not the Prophet?” he asked slowly. “Would you still be hiding in your fortress? Or would you be here, fighting back against the Witnesses?”
“We serve the Prophet,” Captain Weatherbourne said again.
Hassan turned away. “I think it might be best if I returned to my aunt’s villa now. As you said, this is … a lot to take in.”
Captain Weatherbourne nodded. “Of course.” He turned to the acolyte, Emir. “Thank you for all that you’ve done. Your service to the Order will be remembered. We’ll speak again soon.”
Emir nodded, and the Guard fell into line, heading toward the temple doors.
“Wait,” Hassan said. “What are you doing?”
“You said you wanted to return to your aunt’s villa,” Captain Weatherbourne said patiently.
“Yes, but I brought Sentry to escort me back,�
�� Hassan replied. “I don’t need you to accompany me.”
It was Captain Weatherbourne’s turn to be confused. “Your Grace, perhaps I was not clear. I am the Keeper of the Word. This is the Paladin Guard. We are here to protect you. Where you go, we go.”
Hassan just stared at him. It was finally beginning to sink in. An hour ago, he had been summoned to the Temple of Pallas by a group of people who hadn’t been seen in a century, without the faintest idea why. Now, he was no longer Hassan Seif, Crown Prince of Herat. He was Hassan Seif, subject of a secret prophecy.
The last and only hope to stop the Age of Darkness.
15
ANTON
The message told Illya to meet Anton in the Temple of Tarseis at midnight. Ephyra had left it inside Anton’s flat in the marina district. They knew the flat was still being watched by the men Illya had hired, so it wouldn’t be long before the message was discovered.
All they needed to do was wait.
Anton and Ephyra stood shoulder to shoulder in the dark sanctum of the Temple of Tarseis. Night had fallen over the city like a shroud, and Anton felt smothered by the quiet.
They’d chosen the temple because of its location just within the walls of the High City. Anton knew it was a risk to do this where Sentry foot soldiers patrolled every night, but with the Sentry around, there was less danger that Illya would bring his hired swords with him to ambush them. The Sentry would be quick to notice a half dozen armed swordsmen roaming the streets near the temple, but Anton’s knowledge of the city’s back alleys and Ephyra’s knowledge of the Sentry patrol routes meant they themselves could avoid detection.
“When you do this usually … I mean, when you kill someone as the Pale Hand … what happens?” Anton asked, keeping his voice hushed in the quiet of the sanctum.
“I break in. Or I sneak in. Make sure they’re alone.” Ephyra’s smile was slow, like poison. “Then I tell the poor bastards why I’m there.”
“You talk to them?”
“Everyone should have their last words.”
A sick sort of curiosity came over him. “What do they say?”
“You’re about to find out,” she said, before retreating into the shadows.
Anton felt his brother’s approach before he saw him. The low buzz of his esha rattled through him like teeth in a glass jar. He looked to the temple doors. On the portico stood the person that he had prayed every day for the past five years never to see again.
Moonlight spilled across a broad, pale forehead. Bright gold eyes peered down a straight nose, so similar to his own. Anton would know that face anywhere. He had spent a long time trying to purge its image from his mind.
“Brother,” Illya said. The sound of his voice was ice in Anton’s veins. “It’s been a long time.”
The last time Anton had seen him, they’d both been in threadbare rags, perpetually cold, perpetually grubby. Now, Illya looked like one of the guests Anton might serve at Thalassa Gardens. Anton had no trouble believing that the man in front of him had the means to hire a scrying agency and furnish himself with hired swords.
“Not long enough,” Anton answered. “Why were you looking for me?”
Illya answered without hesitation. “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
“Safe?” Anton was nearly speechless with disbelief. “You’ve never cared about that. I haven’t forgotten what you tried to do to me.”
“I’ve changed,” Illya said, boots clicking against stone as he stepped farther into the sanctum. “I look back at the vicious, rage-filled creature who hurt you, and I no longer recognize him. All I’ve wanted since you left was to find you and tell you how sorry I am for the things I did.”
For the first time, it occurred to Anton to wonder what had happened to Illya in the years since the lake. If the man who stood in front of him now truly was different, somehow, than the boy he’d been. He certainly looked different, in his trim gray Endarrion coat and polished boots. But beneath the fine clothing, there remained something derelict in Illya’s appearance. A hunger in his eyes, a desperation that Anton saw only because he knew it so well.
“The things you did,” Anton said. “You tortured me. You told me you were going to kill me. You—” Fear halted his tongue. There was no language for the kind of terror he had lived in.
Illya paled. “I was a child.”
“So was I.”
Illya’s head dipped forward, shadowing his face from view. “I cannot excuse what I did. I know that. But you know that I suffered, too. You don’t know how it felt, being an unwanted, useless son, just like our father. Worthless, because of what I was. What I wasn’t. While you were the chosen son, destined to rescue our family from squalor and restore us to glory.”
Illya had been cast aside, the Graceless firstborn living in the shadow of his younger brother.
“I never wanted to be that,” Anton said. “Every night, I wished that someone would take my Grace away, so she would let me be. So that you would stop hating me.”
Something flickered in Illya’s expression, something so close to remorse that Anton felt bewildered for a moment. Could someone as cruel as his brother feel true remorse?
Anton wouldn’t let himself believe it. Illya might have found a way to rise from their bleak childhood, to trick the world into giving him what he wanted, the way he’d tricked Anton so many times, but it was all a clever ruse. The beast might have been caged, but it still lived.
“I did hate you,” Illya said after a pause. “But once you were gone, I saw that it wasn’t you I hated, truly. It was them. After you left, I left, too. I never looked back. Father’s probably drunk himself to death, and as for our dear old grandmother … well, if you can survive on spite alone, I imagine she’s right where we left her.”
If Anton thought back far enough, he could remember a time when he and Illya had been united in the stark, cold reality of their home. Side by side against their drunk, useless father and their cruel grandmother, a woman so devoid of kindness she made wolves look nurturing. Anton could remember the exact day it had all changed. Illya had gotten lost outside during a storm. And when the snow died down, Anton had led their grandmother straight to him, guided there by Illya’s esha.
The next day, Illya had twisted Anton’s arm behind his back until he cried. From then on, it was clear—Anton had lost his only ally. His only true family.
“I got out, just like you,” Illya said softly. “I went to Osgard, and then to Endarrion, searching for a place where I could be something more than the unwanted son. It took time, but … I saw how wrong I was. I saw how I let jealousy twist me.”
“Don’t tell me you want to apologize now,” Anton said. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed. Don’t tell me you can ever, ever escape the things you did to me. Because I can’t.”
Illya’s golden eyes dimmed. “Anton, I … I know I was cruel. I hurt you. I wanted you to suffer. But the things I said to you, the things I threatened—I would never have killed you. Never.”
“Liar,” Anton said, his jaw clenching.
“Anton, I swear—”
“You tried to drown me!” Anton shouted. “You led me to that frozen lake, and when the ice broke beneath me, you tried to hold me under.”
Illya’s face twisted in surprise, then sorrow. “Is that what you think happened? That day, on the lake, I saved you. You fell in, and I dragged you from the freezing water. I thought—You weren’t even breathing. Your skin was so blue. But then you coughed, and breathed, and that was the moment—that’s when I knew I had to start protecting you. That I had to be the brother I should have been from the start. But you left before I had the chance.”
“Stop,” Anton said. “Stop lying.”
“I’m not lying, Anton.”
“Stop!” Anton yelled, and in his mind, he heard the yell of his eleven-year-old self, as his brother pushed him beneath the water, beneath the ice.
Stop! Illya’s voice rang in Anton’s head, sharp and panicked, l
ike the rattle of his esha, as Anton’s lungs seized, as his vision went dark. Please, stop!
No. It was Anton pleading, Anton begging, pathetic. Wanting Illya to let go, wanting to be free, wanting to sink below the water.
No.
He wanted to be safe. The only way to be safe was for Illya to be gone. Even standing in front of him was messing with his head. He had to make it stop.
“Oh, Anton,” Illya said, with a look of pity. “You still don’t know what you’re running from, do you?”
16
EPHYRA
Ephyra stepped out of the shadows as Anton fell to his knees in the middle of the temple sanctum.
“Who’s there?” Illya cried as Ephyra knelt beside Anton’s trembling form.
“A deal is a deal,” she said to Anton. “Just say the word.”
“Who are you?” Illya asked, fixing his gold eyes on Ephyra.
She stood, leveling him with the Pale Hand’s coldest stare. “You shouldn’t have come looking for him,” she said. “You shouldn’t have sent those men after him.”
“What?” Illya said. “I didn’t send anyone after him. I came here to protect him.”
Behind her, Anton let out a harsh sound, sharper than a laugh. He climbed back to his feet. “Protect me from what?”
Illya’s brow creased. “From the Witnesses, Anton. From anyone who would try to hurt you because of what you are.”
“You mean like you did?”
“There are people out there who are worse than I was,” Illya replied, his voice shaking ever so slightly. “Things are different now than they used to be. The Witnesses aren’t just a fringe group of fanatics. People believe what they say. That they will bring a Reckoning for the Graced. Now that they’ve taken Nazirah, they say the other Prophetic Cities are next. Charis. Tarsepolis. Behezda. It’s the reason I started looking for you. To make sure you were safe.”
“I’ll never be safe,” Anton replied. “Not if you’re still here.”
Ephyra looked between the two brothers. She’d killed plenty of men like Illya before. Men who swore they’d never done the terrible things that she knew they had. Men who used their last breaths to plead and pretend they’d changed. This Illya Aliyev was no different. From what Anton had told her, about the lake, about their childhood, Illya was as cruel as they came. He deserved death just as much as the Pale Hand’s other victims.
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