“I tried to help her,” Anton said. “I swear. I—I managed to distract Navarro to give Beru time to get away. She did—she went to the train station, to go to Tel Amot. But there was a fight. Navarro got away. After that, I don’t know.”
He expected her anger, her panic, her disgust. What he got was none of these things. It was her face crumpling, her eyes flickering away from his. Then she nodded, firm.
“He’s going to find her, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” Anton said. “It doesn’t matter. Ephyra, we have to get out of here. My brother—he’s here. He found me somehow. He…” He stared at Ephyra, at the tight set of her jaw and the way she did not quite meet his gaze.
He realized she had never answered his question.
“How did you get out of the citadel, Ephyra?”
To her credit, she didn’t look away. “It was the only way,” she said. “The only way to save Beru.”
Of course. Of course Ephyra was the one who’d brought Illya here. Panic twisted his stomach as his brother’s rattling esha drew closer.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted.” There was more emotion in Ephyra’s voice than Anton had ever heard. “But I think you’re wrong about him. I don’t think he’s what you think he is.”
“He’s exactly what I think he is. And you just—you—”
His throat closed as another figure emerged at the top of the stairwell.
Illya.
Ice shot down Anton’s spine at the sight of his brother’s face—the pale skin stretched tight, dark shadows under his golden eyes. He looked back at Ephyra, still not certain, unwilling to be certain, that she had betrayed him.
“You never bid me farewell, Anton,” Illya said, sorrow permeating his voice as he descended toward him.
Ephyra glanced between them uncertainly. “I thought you were going to wait for me to talk to him.”
“I changed my mind,” Illya said dismissively. He turned those gold eyes back on Anton. “You didn’t bid me farewell the first time you left, either. When you stole away in the middle of the night. Grandmother and Father blamed me, you know. Gave me the worst beating of my life.”
“Well, they had it right. I was running away from you.”
“No, you weren’t,” Illya said softly. “Perhaps that’s what you needed to tell yourself back then. Perhaps it was easier that way, to think that all your fears could be traced to your cruel, jealous brother. But that’s not the truth, and deep down, you know that.”
Illya’s words froze him. He wanted so badly to run and not look back. But he couldn’t will himself to move.
He sucked in a shaking breath. “I ran away because you were going to kill me.”
“You mean the lake?” Illya asked. “No, Anton. I didn’t try to kill you, but something did happen that day. Something that scared you more than I ever could. Something that, even now, you can’t face.”
“I know what happened.”
“Do you?”
“I—” Anton shut his eyes. He was in the lake again, his muscles frozen rigid. Hands pulling him down. “I’m—”
You still don’t know what you’re running from, do you?
He couldn’t let the water in, no matter how much his lungs burned for release. He couldn’t give in. Couldn’t let himself sink. Couldn’t face what waited for him at the bottom of the lake.
“I don’t—”
Stop!
STOP!
“Anton!”
His eyes flew open to find Jude’s face just in front of him. Anton wasn’t sure where he’d come from.
“Are you all right?” Jude asked.
The storm of Jude’s esha rang out around them as Anton stared at the slight gap between Jude’s front teeth, the thick lines of his brows drawn together, the green eyes bright with earnest concern. He didn’t know how to answer.
Jude’s gaze flickered past Anton to Ephyra. “You,” he said in surprise. “I don’t understand. Anton said you were trying to help him.”
“It’s simple,” Anton said. “She decided to betray me instead.”
“Could you be any more dramatic?” Ephyra said. “I didn’t betray you. I came to find Beru.”
“And led him here in the process,” Anton said. “Along with his mercenaries.”
“Mercenaries?” Ephyra said. “What mercenaries?”
“Oh,” Illya said mildly. “After we parted ways, I may have invited a few friends to join us.”
Five men rounded the corner. They were dressed in uniforms almost like the Sentry, but gray and red instead of blue. Two of them wielded huge crossbows with brass gears and heavy silver chains wound around them. The rest held swords. Anton couldn’t sense Grace in any of them. These were average, run-of-the-mill fighters. Their brute force would have been more than enough to overpower him alone.
But for the first time, Anton wasn’t alone.
Jude stepped forward to fill the space between Anton and the approaching mercenaries, gripping the hilt of his sword tight even as confusion clouded his features.
“What?” Ephyra said, glancing between them and Illya. “But you—you said—”
“He lied to you, Ephyra,” Anton said. “All he does is lie.”
“I do a little more than just that,” Illya said. With a flick of his hand, the mercenaries descended.
Jude was a blur. One second, he was at Anton’s side, and the next, he was a flurry of motion—a swirl of blue cloak, the flash of moonlight on a silver blade.
Jude met the first mercenary, sending him stumbling back. He spun, fending off another. The next few seconds were a furious clash of blades as Jude drove back the mercenaries’ attacks, keeping himself, always, between them and Anton.
Anton met Ephyra’s gaze across the chaos of the fight as he pressed himself back against the wall. There was no regret or guilt in her eyes. Just ruthless determination. She started to turn away, toward the low wall that led out into the courtyard.
“Get her, too,” Illya growled. “All three of them.”
Two of the mercenaries lunged at Ephyra. One grabbed hold of her arm, dragging her away from the wall.
She struggled against the mercenary, arms pinned at her sides. “Let go!”
Anton watched her eyes find Illya again, cold fury in them.
“What happened to allies?” she spat.
His brother smiled—a smile that chilled Anton to the bone. “You made a good ally. But you’ll make an even better prisoner.”
Ephyra’s face twisted. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.” She stomped down on her captor’s foot. He let out a howl of pain, and a moment later, she was slipping free of his hold and launching herself toward Illya. In a flash, she knocked him to the ground, pinning his chest with her knee, her palm pressed to his throat like the edge of a knife.
“Call them off,” she cried. “I can stop your heart before you take your next breath, and I don’t need a weapon to do it. Call. Them. Off.”
Anton heard a low cranking noise, and in the time it took him to realize what was happening, one of the crossbow-wielding mercenaries fired.
Ephyra threw herself to the side, rolling off Illya. The bolt and chain flew past her, over the low terrace wall.
Ephyra stared at it, wide-eyed, and then took off at a run, vaulting over the wall and onto the next roof.
“Go after her!” Illya cried, and then turned his attention back to Anton.
Jude was now the only person standing between the brothers. But before either of them could make a move, the two mercenaries flanking Illya hefted their crossbows and fired.
Anton flinched. Jude’s sword whirled in front of him, blocking one of the bolts. He dodged past the other, his blade cutting through the air toward Illya.
The second bolt struck the wall beside Anton, embedding itself into the stone. The attached chain whipped after it and then released, wrapping around Jude’s wrist, pulling taut and stopping his blade inches from Illya’s throat.
“I don’t think you want to be doing that,” Illya warned.
Jude cried out and stumbled again, collapsing to his knees. Anton felt Jude’s esha shudder. He wanted to go to his side, but his instincts screamed at him to stay put.
Illya stepped up to Jude’s crumpled form. Jude let out a low groan.
“What did you do to him?” Anton demanded.
“Nothing permanent,” Illya assured him. “These chains were forged in Godfire. They won’t burn out your Grace like the flames themselves, but they will make it unimaginably painful to use it.”
Jude jerked his head up. “Godfire? That’s impossible. You’re…” He let out another hiss of pain. “The Witnesses sent you?”
Anton whipped back toward his brother. All along, he’d thought Illya was here to bring vengeance on him, but—this? Illya, one of the Witnesses?
He’d been so stupid. Illya had never cared about their family’s supposed bloodline. He’d always resented Anton for his Grace. It made sense, then, that he’d turned to the people who validated that. Who had taught him that the very thing he hated—Anton’s power—was the thing that condemned him.
“You catch on quick,” Illya said. “I’m almost impressed.”
Jude groaned again. “What do you want with Anton?”
“I thought that would be obvious,” Illya replied mildly. “After all, it’s the same thing you want with him.”
Jude looked back at Anton, his expression clouded with agony. “What is he talking about?”
“Oh,” Illya said, amusement lightening his tone. “Interesting.”
“Let him go,” Anton said, turning back to his brother. “He’s not who you want.”
“Oh, but he is,” Illya replied. “You both are.”
He knelt down to Jude, tugging the brooch from his cloak. The dark blue fabric pooled around Jude’s form.
“Keeper of the Word,” Illya said, looking down at the brooch. “I’ve a feeling the Hierophant will be plenty pleased with me when I deliver the leader of the Order of the Last Light to him.”
They were cornered. There was no bargain, no wager Anton could offer. No trick he could pull. No choice he could make. The fear that had pushed him from city to city, that had sharpened his mind and hastened his step for years suddenly dissolved. In its wake was defeat.
Perhaps he had known all along that Illya would one day win. Anton had managed to put it off for years, but he had ended up here after all—with nowhere left to run and no way to stop himself from sinking.
42
EPHYRA
The mercenaries were easy to kill. Ephyra had ended so many lives, she barely even registered the moment when the esha left them, when they crossed that narrow pathway between life and death.
She didn’t know anything about these men who’d been hired to capture her or what choices had led them to this moment on the roof of the taverna. She didn’t care. With her hand on his throat, she looked down at the mercenary’s glazed eyes and bloodless face and pictured Illya Aliyev instead.
The anger she felt at being tricked was as sharp and bitter as blood. Illya had made a fool of her, gaining her trust, with downcast eyes and a few soft words. Of course he didn’t want to protect Anton—Anton had told her as much, and she’d dismissed him. Because despite everything she’d done, she still had a stupid tender heart that didn’t let her believe there was someone who would turn on their own brother. He’d played her.
She was the Pale Hand. She didn’t get played.
But Illya was the least of her concerns. When the second mercenary dropped to the ground, Ephyra redirected her anger where it belonged—on Hector Navarro. She had to get to Beru. That was the only thing that mattered.
Footsteps echoed up from the walkway below. There were at least two sets, plodding and uneven.
“Sweet Endarra, how are you still so terrible at holding your liquor?” a gruff voice grumbled.
Ephyra dropped to her belly as two figures turned the corner below. One of them was taller than any man she had ever seen before, and he seemed to be supporting half the weight of his smaller companion. Ducking her head, she prayed they wouldn’t look up.
“I’m perfectly fine, darling.”
“You say that now, but I’m the one who’s going to have to tend to you tomorrow when you’re sick and in a hateful mood. You know, it’s really not becoming for a sea captain to begin each voyage throwing up over the side of his own ship.”
“What did I do to deserve a husband capable of such cruelty?”
The tall man’s laughter boomed out from below as they passed directly beneath Ephyra and the dead mercenaries. In the soft moonlight, she could make out dark markings on the taller man’s skin. A healer.
“I’ll make it up to you when we get to Tel Amot,” the healer said slyly. As he leaned down to whisper something in his companion’s ear, Ephyra’s heart thudded hard.
Tel Amot.
Before she’d thought it through, she crawled away from the edge of the roof and dropped down to a shadowed alcove between the stairs and the wall. The laughter and teasing of the two men drew closer. When they were nearly on top of her, Ephyra stepped out from the shadows, nearly bowling them over.
“I’m so sorry!” she cried as they stumbled back.
“Quite all right,” the tall healer said. “Remzi here can hardly walk straight, anyway.”
The shorter man pouted. “That’s just hurtful.”
“I was just coming down the stairs,” she said, gesturing, “and I overheard you say you have a ship headed to Tel Amot?”
The two men exchanged a glance that Ephyra couldn’t quite parse.
“We are not taking any more charity cases aboard,” the tall one said. “Or wagers. Definitely no wagers.”
“Excuse me?”
“What Yael means to say is that we can’t help you get to Tel Amot,” Remzi said. “Sorry.”
They maneuvered around her to continue down the walkway.
“I would pay, of course,” she called after them.
They stopped. The smaller man turned around, brightening.
Ephyra held out a coin purse. “Will this cover it?”
She’d stolen it off the two mercenaries. They had no need for it anymore.
Ephyra let the purse fall from her hand, and Remzi reached forward to catch it. His eyes grew wide as he peered inside.
“That’s nearly two hundred virtues,” she said. “And if that’s not enough, I’ll work for it, too. Whatever you need done.”
Remzi closed the purse and handed it to Yael over his shoulder. “I think this should cover it. Yael?”
Yael balanced the purse on one broad hand. “Should do it.”
“Happy to have you aboard,” Remzi said, beaming as Yael tucked the purse away. “We leave at first light.”
“You won’t even be sober yet at first light,” the tall healer said, ushering him away. Over his shoulder, he said, “We leave at midday.”
Ephyra would have preferred dawn, but she’d take what she could get. Soon, she would be on her way to Tel Amot. And from there, back to the place she never thought she’d return.
Ephyra was going home.
43
HASSAN
Hassan woke to the woody scent of burning incense filling his lungs. Warmth enveloped him as he slowly opened his eyes. Slivers of sunlight penetrated through the layered palm fronds above him.
“Glad to see you’re awake.”
A cool hand pressed against his forehead. He turned his head and saw Lethia, her eyes creased with weary concern. “Easy now. You’re all right.”
He sat up woozily, taking in his surroundings. He was in the healer’s tent in the agora.
Penrose rose from a cushion at the foot of his pallet. “Prince Hassan.”
Hassan wrenched the thin blanket off and simultaneously tried to get up. The blanket tangled, and he furiously tried to kick it away.
“What happened?” he asked. “Was anyone else hurt?”
“What were you thinking, charging at the Witnesses like that?” Lethia said. “You were nearly killed!”
“I told you to stay put,” Penrose admonished.
“I see you two have decided to get along,” Hassan muttered. “What happened to the temple?”
The image of flames billowing from its doors blazed in his mind.
“They put out the fire,” Penrose replied. “The Sentry showed up, and the rest of the Witnesses fled. Several were killed, including the one who hurt you.”
“Was anyone else hurt?” Hassan asked again.
Penrose didn’t answer. Lethia was silent, too.
Hassan’s heart lurched. He couldn’t stand not knowing a second longer. The image of Khepri’s face as she’d raced away from him hung in his mind. She had to be all right. She had to be.
He strode past the two of them, pushing his way through the curtains that separated his sickbed from the rest of the tent.
And ran straight into Khepri.
“Prince Hassan!” she cried in surprise, but did not pull away. He took in her face, the dirt and grime and horror of the fight still fresh.
Before he knew what he was doing, his hands wrapped around her shoulders, drawing her close, pressing his face into the crease between her shoulder and neck.
“Hassan,” she said, her voice coming out softer, shakier, more unsure than he’d ever heard it before.
“You’re safe,” he murmured into her throat. The sight of her charging into the agora had made his gut clench and his pulse thunder in his ears. He couldn’t stand the thought of her leaping into battle and not coming out of it alive.
He stepped back, hands trailing up her shoulders to cup the sides of her face. Her eyes closed at his touch. Dried blood caked over a scrape on her forehead, dirt streaked her cheeks, and Hassan was certain that she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Khepri,” he breathed, drawing toward her, powerless against her pull. Her eyes fluttered open, and he saw that they were red. Tear tracks streaked through the dirt on her face. “What happened?”
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