Palace of Darkness

by Tracy L. Higley

  “To him who is able to guard you against stumbling and to set you in the presence of his glory . . . without fault and with great joy—to the only wise God our Savior, be glory, greatness, power, and authority, before all ages, now and forevermore!”

  In that moment, the moon itself turned to blood.

  FORTY-SIX

  MALIK DROPPED AWAY FROM JULIAN, HIS EYES ON THE bloodred moon.

  The boy had done well thus far, but the powers rising around them were stronger than any Malik had ever encountered. As though Dushara, the unseen prince of Petra, had called forth every demon of hell to aid him in his domination of the High Place and the people.

  Could Julian withstand such an onslaught? Malik was not certain he himself could do it, and Julian was largely untested and so young. Malik listened to Julian’s voice above the wind, above the screams of the people, and thought perhaps the boy’s strength faltered even now.

  I should speak to them. I should tell them to have faith.

  Malik’s skin twitched. His fingers tightened into fists, his fingernails dug into his palms.

  The torches on the other side of the High Place, where the altar stood awaiting its gruesome offering, still flamed. Cassia would be there, Malik knew. He could do nothing for her, could not even call out words of assurance she would hear. He must entrust her to God alone.

  And the rest of them.

  Malik’s heart reached out to the word of the Lord, such a quiet voice amid the chaos that swirled around them. Say it again, Lord.

  My child, you are not trusting the flock to Julian. You are giving them to Me.

  Malik had visited Mount Hermon in Judea once, when he was much younger. He had seen the snow and ice atop the heights. And in this moment before the Lord, he felt as though he were that snow, melting under the heat of the love of God, dissolving and pouring downward. He closed his eyes and loosened his fingers, his hands open as though releasing at last his grip on the church.

  The turmoil on the plateau grew louder, more frantic, and Malik opened his eyes to trace the cause. His people had gone out to the citizens of Petra, the word of the Lord pouring from each of them, the light of the love of Christ shed abroad.

  But the powers of darkness would not lie still at this assault. One citizen after another seemed to be filled with an evil so palpable, it shot venom from their eyes and mouths.

  Malik had seen this before. In his youth he had been present when Paul cast demons out of the very bodies of people who had become inhabited by a foul presence. He saw those afflicted tear at their own skin, rip out their own hair in an agony of confusion, their own bodies becoming their enemy. Paul lifted the name of Christ over these demons, their backs arched and lips drawn back over their teeth, then the evil spirits left the bodies behind, like empty shells, nearly lifeless in the dirt.

  Malik swallowed hard, fought against the fear in his chest, tasted ashes in his mouth. His stomach turned at the smell of burning flesh, as though the demons fed upon those they had invaded.

  The wild eyes of both men and women who had given themselves away darted left and right, up and down, looking for someone to devour. And Malik heard a wrenching sound, as though the very earth had been torn open and shrieks erupted from the deep.

  He turned to Julian, fearing an attack on the boy, for the wild-eyed ones turned on anyone who approached.

  Julian stood with his arms upraised, his eyes closed, and Malik saw the Spirit of God on him, a shield of defense. He breathed in relief, but the breath was cut short by a sharp pain, like the prick of a small needle, in his lower back.

  He turned a slow circle, confused, and put a hand to the pain.

  Behind him, a young man, his eyes impossibly large and dark, hissed through clenched teeth, “You will not win here.” He waved a short dagger. “You are nothing here!” Then he was gone.

  When Malik brought his hand before his eyes, he saw it was covered with blood, and his legs grew wobbly.

  He turned back to the battle. Although it raged on, for Malik all had grown quiet. The sound of the clash of heaven and hell was replaced by a sweet silence, and perhaps soft music far away.

  His vision blurred and he decided to lie down on the rock, for that would be much better.

  A thousand stars looked down on him in that sweet silence, and Malik thought, strangely, of Moses dying on Mount Nebo, not far from here. Of Aaron, also called home on a mountain, some said here in Petra.

  It is an honor to die thus, on a mountaintop before the Lord.

  He felt no pain, only some sadness that like Moses, he would not live to see the end of his battle.

  The battle is the Lord’s, Malik.

  He nodded to the dark sky, to the stars watching him.

  You have done well, faithful servant. It is time to enter into your rest.

  Malik smiled and turned his head slightly on his rock-bed. There was only one thing left to do.

  As though Malik’s desire had carried on the hot wind and lodged in the heart of the boy, Julian looked down, saw Malik there on the ground, and dropped his arms.

  Come, Julian. It is time to say good-bye.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  CASSIA THOUGHT PERHAPS HAGIRU COULD CAUSE THE earth to open and swallow her as she stood before the queen on the narrow promontory of rock at the highest part of the plateau. Below and to their right, an unearthly shriek had begun, and when Cassia glanced that way she saw that darkness reigned over the area. All the torches had gone out.

  Hagiru saw it, too, and Cassia felt a flash of something like fear in the queen, but it was gone just as quickly and the queen’s gaze was back on her with a fury that could burn through rock.

  As though the citizens feared this battle could also take them down, they cleared the stone-outlined rectangle that served as the holy place. Only a few held their places, and behind Hagiru, Alexander was held by a palace guard. A rope circled his wrists and the sight of it caused Cassia physical pain, wracking her body with a trembling chill she fought to control.

  She forced a smile for Alexander, who rocked back and forth as if to calm himself. She wrenched her attention back to Hagiru, who had crossed to stand before a rectangular slab on the ground, stained with the blood of many sacrifices.

  Cassia climbed over the few rocks that separated her from the enclosure, then stepped over the low stone wall and faced Hagiru.

  “You cannot stop this,” Hagiru screamed. “The gods will have their offering!” A fierce wind blew across the stony plateau, and Cassia trembled again. She was exposed here on top of this rock, vulnerable and unprotected, and she longed for Zeta’s cozy cave or the tomb where the church met and sang and prayed.

  At the thought of the church, her gaze strayed to the darkness where masses of people seethed over the mountain. The torches sent an inky smoke toward the heavens, but from here it seemed that a hundred tiny lights moved through the crowds, too small for torches, a glow too soft to be flame, too bright to be only a reflection.

  She turned back on Hagiru, but in Cassia’s distraction the queen had summoned Alexander to be brought to her. The guard who held him shoved him forward, and he stumbled and fell onto the stone slab, unable to break his fall with his bound hands.

  Cassia cried out, reached out, and again felt physical pain, this time in her empty arms.

  Hagiru held out a hand to a nearby priest.

  He shook his head. “The priest must be the one—”

  “And I am high priestess!”

  At Hagiru’s shriek, Alexander tried to crawl off the slab. The queen clamped a jeweled sandal down on his neck, pinning him to the stone.

  Cassia’s body shook, her trembling uncontrollable. Jesus, save my son.

  The priest brought the blood basin, his face a mask of anger at the queen’s presumption.

  Hagiru bent to Alexander.

  “No!” Cassia’s scream echoed across the rock and Hagiru lifted her eyes—and smiled.

  Behind the queen, a pubescent voice called o
ut, “Do it, Mother! Do it!”

  Cassia lifted her eyes to see Obadas, his face aglow with a cruel delight. She held out her hands as though she could stop this thing.

  Hagiru’s glance went to her son, then back to Cassia. “You see? That is true strength. Already the boy is stronger than his father. He sees what must be done and does not shrink back. We will have a true king of Petra at last!”

  Cassia shook her head. “Cruelty does not make one a fit king. Rabbel was a good man.”

  Hagiru straightened and laughed, the knife held loosely in her hand. Cassia took a shallow breath, her eyes on the blade.

  “A good man?” She pointed to Obadas. “That is the only good thing that ever came of him. He was weak from the day he was crowned. It is a mystery to me how he stayed alive as long as he did.”

  The truth flashed upon Cassia, as clear as a drop of water. “You killed him.”

  Hagiru shrugged one shoulder, her thin red lips turned up at the corners, then pointed again to her son. “There. There is the reason I have done what I must. It is all for him.”

  Cassia lifted her head and inhaled. “It is all for yourself.”

  Hagiru’s face blanched, as though Cassia had named her secret, and it seemed the skin of her face tightened over her bones. Her lips drew back from her teeth and she raised her knife to point it at Cassia.

  She said nothing, but Cassia felt a darkness, inky and black, slither into her chest and climb up into her mind. She put a hand to her head but could not rid herself of it.

  Hagiru’s laugh caused the darkness to swell inside her. The wind rose, billowing the queen’s robes around her and pressing Cassia’s dress to her body, like a second skin that was no protection.

  Insects crawled in Cassia’s mind, biting at her thoughts, chewing on her emotions, whispering in a thousand insect voices. She clutched her head with both hands.

  She must get away from those insects.

  She looked around, at the rocks, the torches, the people. Beyond Hagiru, beyond the stone altar laid ready, the open air called to her, promised her freedom.

  The drone of the tiny insect voices merged into one loud voice, commanding and not to be ignored.

  THROW YOURSELF DOWN.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  JULIAN SAW MALIK LYING PRONE ON THE GROUND. HIS heart lurched with the certainty that after this night, this mountaintop, everything would be changed.

  He ran to Malik. Fell to one knee beside the dear man. “Where are you hurt, Malik?” His voice was nearly lost in the screams and the howling wind.

  Malik shook his head slightly, his eyes focused on Julian’s own. “There is no pain.” He smiled a bit. “I hadn’t realized until now that it was the pain I feared most.”

  Julian searched Malik’s body. If he was not hurt, then why did he lie on the rock? “Come.” He tugged Malik’s arm. “Come and stand with me for the people.”

  The elder reached a shaky hand to Julian’s cheek. “It is your turn to stand for the people, son.”

  Julian clutched at Malik’s shoulder, fear chilling his hands. “Not yet, Malik. Not yet.”

  Malik dropped his arm and it fell across his chest. “There is not time to argue with the Lord, boy. Nor is there any purpose in it. Believe me, I have tried.” He laughed at his own words but then looked up earnestly at Julian. “Listen, my dear son in the faith. It is a good thing that you do not feel ready. Let it remind you that you must not act in your own strength. You cannot. The Spirit will teach you how to lead from the heart of a servant, and you must listen.”

  Julian nodded, unheeding of the storm around them, focused on Malik’s every word, to draw from them everything he would need in the days ahead. “I will listen, Malik.”

  The older man smiled, and Julian grasped his hands resting on his chest.

  But there were no more words of instruction. Malik’s eyes widened, and Julian feared for a moment that he felt great pain. But his gaze had gone to the sky above, and it was wonder reflected there, not pain.

  “The hosts of heaven, Julian! The hosts of heaven have come!”

  Julian followed his gaze upward but saw nothing but the dark sky, though he thought perhaps he heard the distant beat of wings. When he looked back to Malik, the man’s eyes were raised to heaven still, but they were unblinking and glassy.

  His body and mind numb at the loss, Julian pulled a hand free and closed Malik’s eyes. He gripped Malik’s hands again, unwilling to say good-bye.

  A strange feeling began in Julian’s hands then. As though Malik’s grip on him, still tight, was a fire that warmed him, a heat that traveled the length of his arms, into his chest, through his entire body.

  When he was a child, Julian’s mother had told him stories of when she had been a young woman in Pompeii, of the day the mountain had exploded and rained ash down on the countryside, and of the molten rock that had flowed into the towns like a river of fire, then hardened into a solid thing.

  This was what he felt now. A molten heat flowing into him from Malik’s hands, filling up his body and hardening into a strength that drew him to his feet and turned him to the battle.

  Malik had gone on to his reward.

  And, Julian, you will lead My church.

  With the words, the torches on the plateau once again blazed.

  There were more screams from the people, but Julian saw the faces of his own people in the torchlight turned to him and full of power and joy.

  It was as though heat and light shot from his fingertips. The smell of sulfur receded, replaced by a sweetness that tasted like honey on his lips, and the voices of his people rose around him, part song, part prophecy.

  The evil fell away, peeled back from the mountain like the sloughing off of dead skin. And the power of God fell heavily from the sky on the people of Petra, an invisible wave of strength.

  One after another they fell to their knees, weeping with the bitter sorrow of conviction, crying out to the One God, lifting hands of repentance.

  All among them his people moved, grasping people’s hands, laying hands of blessing on their heads, singing songs of joy, their faces like beacons of light on a distant shore.

  Julian lifted his voice in his first words as Elder of Petra. “On every side there is tribulation, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed but not in despair, persecuted but not forsaken, struck down but not destroyed. We carry in our bodies the death of Jesus, so the life of Jesus may also be revealed!”

  FORTY-NINE

  A THUNDEROUS WAVE OF LIGHT RUSHED OVER CASSIA and sucked the voices from her head. She swayed on her feet, dizzy but aware.

  Something had changed. Something had turned. A filling of power that was not of herself.

  Bethea had arrived and stood with Obadas, behind Hagiru.

  The queen’s attention went to the plateau beyond, where the torches were again alight. A strange wail ascended from the people, like the sound of a thousand in mourning. Her gaze came back to Cassia, and a flicker of fear sparked there.

  Cassia took a few steps forward, and it seemed as though she grew taller with each step—and Hagiru grew smaller before her eyes.

  “You cannot stop this.” But Hagiru’s voice seemed feeble now, like a little girl, petulant and selfish.

  And then Hagiru’s whole life seemed to open before Cassia, unrolling like a scroll of pictures she read in an instant. She knew every hurt that had ever come to Hagiru, every disappointment, all the futility.

  Cassia reached out hands of compassion, shocking even herself. “The love you have always longed for is here, Hagiru. Jesus’ death is the redemption for us all, from least to greatest.”

  Hagiru drew back as though she had been slapped. “Stop!” Her eyes lit with fire. “Do not speak that name!”

  “You have spent a lifetime yearning for love yet seeking power.” Cassia took a step closer. “Let it go. The One God seeks to save that which is lost.”

  The queen seemed to shrink in upon herself at Cassia’s words. Her knif
e clattered to the stone at her feet, a hand’s breadth from Alexander. She backed away, her attention never leaving Cassia, but her fists going to her ears. Cassia moved toward her again, until she stood beside the stone slab, with Alexander at her feet.

  The queen fled backward to the altar, grabbed one of the two torches at its side, and waved it in front of her. “Do not come closer! Do not speak!”

  But Cassia had finished with speaking. Instead, she bent to Alexander and searched his eyes.

  He gave her a quick smile. “Hello, Mama.”

  Her heart felt as though it would burst with relief and joy. She picked up the knife Hagiru had dropped and, in one quick move, sliced the rope that bound Alex’s wrists and lifted him to his feet. He wrapped thin arms around her waist, but she fell to her knees and buried her face in the sweet smell of him. “Alexander.” She was whole at last.

  The sight of the two of them seemed to infuriate Hagiru, and she raised the torch above her head. Cassia thought she would fly at them but strangely felt no fear. It was as if the entire High Place had become a platform for the power of God. Nothing could fall on them without passing first through His hands.

  Hagiru’s eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. “You have no power, peasant.”

  At the weak words, Cassia smiled. “There is power in the mighty name of Jesus.”

  At this, Hagiru dropped to her knees before the altar.

  Cassia became aware of the sudden surround of people and stood, hoping to find Julian and Malik. Instead, she saw Decimus and his Roman contubernium in a half circle behind her, swords at the ready.

  “Step behind us, Cassia,” Decimus said, and she complied, leading Alexander by the hand.

  The Romans faced the queen, but Cassia bent to her son, bringing her face down until their noses touched. Alexander grinned.

  “You were very brave. I am proud of you.”

  He shrugged. “The tall men told me not to be afraid.”