by Ted Dekker
“You’re in love with him,” he said.
“He’s my Sovereign,” she replied, a little too quickly.
He glanced back at Jonathan. He was still on his knee talking quietly with the girl, who had stopped weeping and pushed back onto her heels to listen to him.
“I love him too, Jordin. And truth be told, I’m glad he has you by his side.” He looked at her. “But I beg you, for the sake of the kingdom, tell me when he demonstrates any such irrational behavior, yes? He’s my Sovereign as well, and I need to know.”
She dipped her head. “I’m sorry about Triphon.”
Now he could see that her eyes were red at the edges. He hadn’t noticed her crying during their flight from the city, but then, he’d noticed little except his own desperation.
Again, the image of Triphon’s bloody hand falling to the ground filled Rom’s mind.
“I know he was like a brother to you,” Jordin said.
He nodded once, felt his jaw tighten, said nothing. The eddy of so many thoughts at once threatened to drown him.
Other than Feyn, he was the only one remaining of those who had first tasted life from the Keeper’s vial. Avra. Triphon. Neah. Feyn.
It all came down to Feyn, and now even she might be beyond his grasp. No. Roland had to be successful in convincing Saric that he had every intention of giving up Jonathan, however treasonous the thought.
They had shielded the truth about Jonathan from the rest of the Nomads, but they couldn’t do it indefinitely. Once they knew that their own blood was more potent than Jonathan’s, how many of them—given the choice of protecting the Mortal race versus Jonathan—would choose the life in their own veins over that waning within his?
Would he?
That he could even ask himself the question terrified him.
Jordin was studying him intently.
Maker. He couldn’t think these thoughts in front of her. Though none of them could read minds, Mortal perception was far too keen. And he was too raw to school himself well.
He broke from her gaze and nodded toward the girl.
“Take that girl…” He stopped, lost for her name.
“Kaya,” Jordin said.
“Take Kaya. I need a word with Jonathan.”
She hesitated only a moment then headed back and collected her horse.
“Kaya? Why don’t you come with me? We’ll water the horses.”
The girl glanced up with a wondering smile, as though having already forgotten that she had been weeping just a moment ago. And then she got to her feet, not bothering to brush off her hands or the knees of her pants. Jonathan watched her go off with Jordin, who handed the girl the reins to her own mount as they walked farther down the creek bed.
Rom waited as Jonathan stood to his feet, struck by the onslaught of emotion that overcame him now that they were alone. By the time Jonathan turned to him, Rom’s hands were shaking.
“I need to know where you stand.”
Jonathan’s eyes were too placid. Too sorrowful and lucid and seeing at once. He wasn’t mad—Rom of all people could see it. But if that were so, he was frightened all the more because it meant the boy had purposes Rom could not understand.
Railing at the boy would do no good, so he willed the tremor in his hands to still.
“What do you need to know?” Jonathan said.
All efforts at control instantly crumbled at that simple question.
“I need to know why, Jonathan.” He lifted his clenched fists, and, finding nothing to grasp at but air, dropped them helplessly. “Please. Help me understand!”
The boy was quiet, which only added fuel to the surge of desperate confusion within him.
“In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never taken such risk,” Rom said. “Never risked such danger to yourself. Why now? Surely you know the stakes!”
Jonathan watched him with sad eyes. “I do know the stakes. And do you know me?”
“What do you mean do I know you? Of course I know you! Wasn’t I the one who found you as a boy in your mother’s house? Who told you about the prophecy? Who’s guided and watched over you all these years? How can you ask if I know you?”
Jonathan remained silent.
Those had been desperate days of discovery for them. He’d lost Avra in his quest to protect the boy. He’d committed his life to the cause of his kingdom. Was it so strange, then, that he should feel a sense of betrayal?
But even in recognizing it, he felt guilt. Who was he to berate the Sovereign of the world?
“What do you want, Jonathan? Tell me what you need?”
“Do you love me, Rom?”
“Love you? I’ve given you my life! We all have. And now Triphon…” He choked back a hard lump in his throat, willing himself not to spill emotion. “How can you, of all people, ask me that?”
Jonathan lowered his gaze, his dark lashes girl-like in stark contrast to his masculinity. He was so young still.
“I feel terrible for Triphon.” He shifted his gaze toward the distant storm. “But he died knowing the truth. He died alive. How many of those we left behind will die without hope?”
“And how many will die without hope if you fail to take power? Triphon died for that cause, not for a single Corpse among millions! As would we all. Jordin. Roland. Me.”
“Will you die for me… or I for you?”
The question hit Rom like a battering ram. It was true, Jonathan had poured himself out all of these years, never once complaining that his own lifeblood was poured out for their gain.
“You can’t think any of us mean to drain you of life. You must live. For me, for Jordin, for the world!” He flung his hand out, exasperated. “The thought of failing you… How can you say such a thing?”
“Then follow me, Rom. When the time comes, see that the world finds life through my blood. Life more true than even you can know.” Did Jonathan have any inkling that his blood was reverting? The Keeper had said no.
“I do follow you. I will—that’s not the point! You must live and fulfill your purpose to that end. And to that end you have to allow me to protect you now! This isn’t just about making Mortals, Jonathan, but about your people.”
“And who are my people?”
“Mortals! The ones whose veins flow with your blood! The ones who are alive.”
Horse hooves, coming up through the wash—Kaya and Jordin, their voices carrying like birdsong over the running of the brook.
Jonathan turned his head toward the sound.
“Even those alive can still be dead,” he said, and walked away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
FEYN WALKED DOWN THE MARBLE hallway of Saric’s fortress, struck by the severe arch of the ceiling, the ancient and emotive art lining the walls, the red silk that hung from ceiling to floor. Broad candelabras boasting candles a foot in diameter cast pools of amber light at regular intervals through the passage. Gold and crystal chandeliers hung from long chains twenty paces apart, their light extinguished for now in favor of the candles that illuminated the hallway as though it were the dark path through a garden of silk and illusion. So darkly immaculate. Kingly. Saric had always been a man of taste, and his attention to detail here was no exception.
They’d come for her late in the afternoon. Four Dark Bloods and Saric’s chief alchemist, Corban. Saric would see her, they said, tonight, in his fortress outside the city. She was to make arrangements to be gone three days.
She’d quickly set things straight with her servants and with Dominic, who would explain her departure as a time to rest and recover—an understandable course considering all that had happened the last few days.
“Your brother will be with you?” Dominic had asked.
“He may join me. This is a concern to you?”
He’d lowered his head. “Only if it concerns you, my Lady.”
“Then have no fear, Dominic. I serve the Maker.”
He dipped his head. “And I serve you, my Sovereign.”
&nb
sp; “Then Saric is not your concern.”
He didn’t respond, but his silence voiced his insecurities in the matter loudly enough.
“Say what’s on your mind, Dominic.”
After a moment he said what she knew he would. “There is talk, my Lady. About the warriors who serve Saric and his intention to use them as a means of force. The law strictly forbids any use of force or the building of an army for any purpose.”
“And yet we have the Citadel guard to protect us.”
“Yes… And Saric has killed more than one of our guard. You heard about the incident at the Authority of Passing today, I’m sure. Violence comes to us with his Dark Bloods. His words in the senate have not fallen on deaf ears. Fear grips the hall.”
“Then put their minds to ease, Dominic. Order provides for a personal guard to protect any Sovereign at their request. The Dark Bloods serve me in this way.”
“Then Saric serves you.”
“The whole world serves the Sovereign as much as I serve the world.”
“And yet Saric claims the world to be dead…”
“Yes, well. You must allow him some of these thoughts. My brother gave me life in a manner that few can understand. You can appreciate how that might affect him.”
He’d nodded slightly.
“Obviously I am alive. And as living Sovereign, I expect the senate to accept my choice of guard. Saric is in charge of my security until I choose otherwise. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my Lady. Of course.”
“His guard will be embraced as my own. Any word against them is a word against me.”
“I understand.”
“Thank you, Dominic. Serve me well, and I may open your eyes to a new life.”
He bowed his head again. “As you wish.”
She’d left Byzantium with Corban and the Dark Bloods and ridden north on horseback five miles into the dusk, until Corban had presented her with a silk hood to wear at Saric’s request.
Her first impulse to balk at being blinded had quickly bowed to submission. Saric was her Maker and his request was only an invitation to obey. How was she to refuse?
Three hours later, Corban removed the hood, and she laid eyes on the expansive fortress rising from the night like a monolithic wraith. But the moment she’d set foot inside and the thick wooden door shut behind her, life, not death, flooded her mind.
Saric’s life.
“This way, my lady,” Corban said, reaching for a tall iron door set back into the wall. He knocked and opened it at the call of Saric from within.
Music filled the air. Stings, vibrant and somber at once. Feyn stepped into a large sanctum that might be Saric’s office or his most holy place of meditation. Perhaps both.
He sat behind a large ebony desk with ornately carved legs. Feyn took the room in with a single glance—the large framed paintings of landscapes, the silk tapestries gathered in each corner, the thick rugs on the marble floor, the glass sarcophagus with a naked man inside to her far left—and immediately returned her gaze to him.
She bowed her head. “My Lord.”
“Look at me, my child.”
She lifted her eyes to his. For a long moment they remained unmoving.
“Corban,” he said, still gazing at her. “The prisoner we took at the Authority of Passing still lives?”
“Yes, my Lord. We’ve repaired the damage to his lungs and he clings to life with the aid of intravenous supplements. The Mortal is surprisingly strong. A lesser man would never have responded to resuscitation.”
“And yet dead without the life I give him. Be sure no further harm comes to him. I have use for him only if he’s alive.”
“Of course, my Lord. I see to it personally. He grows stronger by the hour.”
“Thank you, Corban. You may leave us.”
Feyn glanced over her shoulder, noting that the two Dark Bloods there had taken a knee, but Corban had only bowed as was his custom. She would learn more of their ways. They were her ways now.
Corban shut the door behind her.
Saric’s eyes glittered. He looked pleased to see her, she thought. The realization flooded her with gratitude. He wore a black jacket over a white shirt opened to reveal his pale chest. A thick silver chain with a pendant of a serpentine phoenix hung from his neck.
He tapped long fingers on the ebony top. She noticed, belatedly, that he had darkened his nails.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, my love.”
She walked to the middle of the room, feeling underdressed in her riding pants and leather jacket.
“I came as quickly as I could.”
“You’re pleased to see me?” he asked.
Her desire to please him surprised her even now, but there was more. A scent in the room that called to her like the smell of the sea.
“More than you can know.”
“Actually, I know it quite well. You’re bound to me, sister. What you do not yet know is that you can’t live without me.”
He walked around the desk, studied her with approval and lifted his hand. She knelt, took the hand in her own, and kissed his fingers. But this time, the scent of his skin awakened a sudden swell of urgency within her. Her ears began to ring and her head felt so light that for a moment she thought she might faint.
Saric chuckled softly. “The craving, yes?”
Craving? Feyn lifted her eyes.
“What is it?”
“Life, my love. My life. In good time.” He pulled his hand away and crossed to one of two large wingbacked chairs before a circular table that looked to have been carved from a single piece of amber granite. A bottle of red wine and two crystal glasses sat on a silver tray.
“Sit with me, Feyn.”
She followed him and sat down in the chair angled toward his. The cylindrical glass sarcophagus stood directly across the room, openly displaying its lifeless occupant. The sight, cursory on first glance, chilled her this time.
“Pravus,” Saric said. “My Maker.”
“He’s dead?”
“He lives in me now. Such a beautiful creature, wouldn’t you agree?”
She wasn’t sure how she felt about the pallid body, but she quickly submitted her confusion and embraced Saric’s point of view.
“Yes,” she said. “Quite.”
“Yes.” He gazed at the sarcophagus with gentle eyes that suggested more than mere appreciation. And then he took up the bottle of wine, plucked the cork out with strong fingers, and filled each glass half full. Replacing the cork, he set the bottle back down and offered her one of the glasses.
“To the life that conquers death.” He lifted his glass, eyes on her.
“To life,” she said, and took a drink. The bite of tannin and fermented grape lingered in her mouth and slipped down her throat like heat. She felt the effect of the wine almost immediately; the weakness that had nearly overcome her when she’d smelled his skin had not passed.
Was this what it was to crave—to live through the life of another?
If so, she wondered what kind of life could demand death? Saric had been brought to life by Pravus, and yet he’d taken his Maker’s life. It was difficult to imagine such a profane act of rebellion, unless it had been demanded by the master. Had Pravus demanded Saric kill him, then?
And if he ever required it, would she capable of such a thing? No! Perhaps. No, impossible. The mere thought was laden with deep offense.
“There are times when life must be taken,” Saric said, as though having read her thoughts on her face. “But only when that life is in direct conflict with greater life. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Tell me.”
It was his way, of late, to lead her with questions, to bring her along gently so that she could best serve him. So she could fulfill her purpose as one made in his image.
“You took his life because it was weaker than your own. It stood in the way of a greater life. Yours.”
“Life, Feyn
. It’s all that matters in this dead world. We who live will subdue the earth and rule the dead as we see fit. And I saw fit to make my subjects dependent upon me in a way Pravus did not. It’s why you crave my blood.”
“My Lord?”
He lifted the back of his hand to her face. The scent of his skin filled her nostrils again, and her pulse quickened as the craving flooded her, stronger than the first time.
Saric removed his hand. “All of my children need me, but in different ways. The ones born from their chambers need to obey me. Their loyalty is secured through alchemy. But you, Feyn, were brought to life with my own blood. Blood you require to live.”
“So… without your blood… I die?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “If I were to die, you would as well. We are truly one, you and I.”
Cold and then heat washed down Feyn’s back. She required his blood to live? Surely he was speaking in metaphorical, not physical, terms!
“How?” she asked.
“You must be injected with a portion of my blood on a regular basis or you die. It’s been three days since I brought you to life. You feel weak now, don’t you? You have a craving you can’t understand.”
She swallowed. Her fingers were trembling, and she drew them in so he would not see it and know her anxiousness over this thought.
He ran his hand over her head and down her hair to settle her. “Never fear, my love. As long as I live and you take my blood every three days, you will live a long life full of beauty and power. Tonight, Corban will help you feed.”
For the briefest of moments, she hated him. Her very life was caged! It wasn’t enough that he had her service and her loyalty, but he would rule her very survival?
Then the thought passed and she allowed other, more constructive thoughts to bathe her mind. She was alive because of Saric. Were not all creatures dependent on their Makers? So then, she should only feel gratitude for the life he had given her, regardless of what she must do to keep it. Was it not the same with the Maker of all? That the one who accepted his way need not be condemned to eternal death?
“But that is not the only reason I sent for you,” he said, his hand falling away from her. He set his glass down, leaned back in his chair, and folded one leg over the other.