Sovereign

by Ted Dekker

  She slowed her step as she came to the last cell and then stopped.

  The man inside stood in the shadows at the back wall, arms folded at his waist. By the faint glow of the lone corridor light she could see enough to know it was him.

  Rom.

  But how he had changed. His hair was shot through with gray. He was thinner, his shoulders not as broad. He’d aged, far more than she. Even through the stubble on his face she could see evidence of scars, of the deepening furrows of time, of worry and hardship. The leader might remain, but the impetuous poet of their first meeting was gone.

  The last time she’d seen him, he had been sun-dark. The man before her was pale, pallid. So it was true, then, that they had hidden themselves belowground.

  “Still unpredictable, after so many years,” she said.

  He stood still, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on hers. “You feel it still, don’t you? Faintly, perhaps, but it’s there, running in your veins.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps not so unpredictable.” He had been beating this drum for fifteen years.

  “Why have you come here?”

  He was quiet.

  “His eyes, my liege,” Corban said, speaking of the brilliant green of Rom’s irises. “This is the first one we have taken alive—the dead ones don’t have such eyes. My alchemists would study his blood and his flesh to better know our enemy.”

  A strange scent wafted through the cell. The telltale stink of Rom’s kind. Where was it coming from, his clothing or his skin? Did the Sovereigns occupy themselves with the burning of incense at all hours, or was he slathered in it for some purpose?

  Rom lifted a hand and coughed into it. The scent became more acute. He was not wearing the scent, it came from him.

  She tilted her head. What strangeness was this?

  “Indeed you must. Study him.”

  “We would like to take one of his eyes.”

  “Of course you would.”

  “With this sample in custody, we may not only better understand the changes in his blood but glean information about the Nomads.”

  “They call themselves the Immortals,” Rom said quietly.

  Corban didn’t seem to have heard him. He was brimming with more life than he had in months at the excitement of this find. She stepped closer to the iron bars, cutting him off.

  “It was foolish of you to come here,” she said.

  “Only as foolish as saving your life.”

  She gave a crystalline laugh. “My life?”

  Silence.

  “I see.” She sighed, laced her fingers together. “We’ve played at these conversations too many times through the years. What is it you can possibly hope to accomplish in coming here? I have no interest in sparing those who subvert my Sovereignty by daring to call themselves by that same name. I will mercifully allow them to keep their delusions to the death. But death is inevitable—by my hand or by Roland’s. He seems to bear you no more love than I for whatever divided you. My alchemist is all but biting through his leash to dissect you. And I can assure you that my Dark Bloods will only benefit from anything we learn and find useful. So you see, you’ve come here in vain.”

  “In fact, my lady, I have accomplished half of my objective in coming here already.”

  She had not been called “my lady” in years—the words made her bristle. “And what objective is that? Ah, I forgot. To save my life.”

  “Yes.”

  “Indeed?”

  “And the sanctity of Jonathan’s legacy. But there’s another reason.”

  “There always is. And what might that reason be?”

  “The truth.”

  “And which truth is this?”

  “That I’ve come to make you Sovereign.”

  She gazed at him for a long moment. Beside her, even Corban’s breath had stilled to silence.

  “I am Sovereign.”

  “Are you?”

  She pursed her lips. Perhaps the strain of mere survival these last years had been too much. Was it possible his mind had broken at last? The thought disappointed her.

  “How many of your kind are left, Rom? We retrieved Triphon’s head. A pity for you, that loss.”

  “Few.”

  “And now you have foolishly left your remaining number leaderless.”

  “Jonathan is their leader.”

  “Then a dead man leads them. Tell me, is this the ‘salvation’ you sought? Having ranged so far and wide, only to end up here?”

  “I am not alone.”

  She flicked a glance at Corban.

  “No one else was found, my liege.”

  She looked at Rom. “Of course not. I forgot. You come with Jonathan. The man my brother killed.”

  “He didn’t die.”

  She’d left the scene of the battle before it had happened. Now, for the first time, doubt crept into her mind. But these were only words from a crafty man. There had been too many witnesses to Jonathan’s death, all of them loyal. No Dark Blood would—or could—lie to her. The boy had been cut in two. And she didn’t mourn him. She’d been put into stasis for the boy once, and that death had put a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “You’ve gone mad, Rom. I daresay I’m disappointed.”

  He pushed away from the wall and moved toward the bars and into the light. Now she could see the story of scars along his cheek and temple. The hair, tied back, strands hanging against his face. He did indeed look haggard. But his eyes—a brilliant emerald she had never seen—were not those of one unhinged.

  “Take my blood into your veins.” His was the first direct gaze to meet hers in years.

  “Will you ever tire of this game?”

  “Your very life depends on it.”

  “Have you forgotten? Your blood kills our kind.”

  “But not you.”

  “No? Because I am special?” she said with a sardonic smile. “Because I took some of your ancient blood once? Clearly, you’ve come to such an impasse that your only hope is to convince me that there’s something more than what I already possess. That you can offer me more, even, than the world.”

  “I can’t. But Jonathan does.”

  That name again.

  She shook her head and turned to Corban. “Do what you will. Learn what you can from him. Keep him alive, if not comfortable.” She stepped past him but turned at the end of the corridor. “And leave at least one of his eyes.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THIS JORDIN KNEW: Immortals only came out in darkness. With their vastly expanded sight, they could see at night like a preying hawk by day. In that same darkness, she would be blind by comparison. Venturing into the wastelands at night would be a death sentence.

  This Jordin also knew: Dark Bloods roamed the streets of Byzantium like packs of rabid dogs both day and night, ready to cut them down. Like the city’s two million Corpses, they could smell the rich scent of Jordin’s kind and moved to immediately eradicate it, oblivious that the very scent they reviled was life itself.

  Still, between the threat of Immortals or Dark Bloods, she would choose the Bloods.

  She made quick preparations for the task before her in the dimly lit privacy of her chamber. No one could know what she was about to do. She would go alone and immediately; seven days was far too short a time to attempt what she was unsure could be accomplished.

  It was also far too long a time to attempt survival in the wastelands.

  Ignoring waves of doubt and fear, she stuffed her most rugged wear—heavy trousers, a beige tunic, a head scarf—into a canvas backpack, along with five good throwing blades, enough bread and nuts to sustain her for two days, and a canteen of water. She had already appropriated a short shovel from one of the back caverns as well as several other supplies she would need if she succeeded.

  Mattius had been right on one thing: what she meant to do was virtually impossible.

  The Book once speculated that Roland and his Immortals had evolved these last years in a way similar to the Dark
Bloods; that Jonathan’s first Mortal blood had changed in them in ways his postmortem blood had not. The thought that Jonathan’s truest followers should decline while his enemies strengthened was just one more bitter pill to swallow.

  Of course, the continued evolution of Immortals was an unproven theory. No one had actually seen an uncloaked Immortal. But the speed and efficiency with which they attacked was undeniable. Had she ever been so deadly in her Mortal days?

  No. And so this, too, she knew: if anything, the rumors surrounding Immortals did not do them justice.

  Jordin slipped into tan pants and a long-sleeved shirt, over which she fastened a snug vest. There, she hid four additional blades, easily accessed by either hand. Her bow and quiver slid easily down her back, inside her shirt, the tip just barely hidden by her hair, which she left down to better cover its presence between her shoulder blades. She would not have ready access to it—the knives would have to suffice until she got clear of the city.

  Except for her scent, which couldn’t be covered up without the use of other strong odors that would only attract their own attention, she might pass for any common Corpse.

  She slung the pack over her shoulders, grabbed a pair of dark glasses, and headed for the tunnel to the surface. There, she would have to contend with the first-watch guard, after which word of her departure would spread like fire. First Rom and now Jordin, gone to the wolves.

  They wouldn’t be wrong on either account.

  She pushed back the sudden onset of doubt and ran toward the exit, already sweating beneath her tunic. The tunnels were rougher here, unevenly cut, less care taken in the excavation of the caverns so many years ago than in the painstaking labor put into their original carving millennia before.

  A form stood up from behind an outcrop of rock, startling her. Kaya. She’d forgotten the girl’s habit of reading alone. Now she saw the faint glow of lamplight, barely visible in the flicker of the nearest torch.

  “Jordin?” The seventeen-year-old girl eyed her with suspicion. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything.” A beat. “Nothing.”

  “Where are you going? To the surface?”

  “Yes.”

  “To find Rom?”

  “No. No questions, Kaya.”

  “It’s day above.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m dressed like a Corpse. And that’s why you won’t spread alarm—it’s the last thing we need now.”

  Kaya watched her with round eyes, the faint glow of light catching her high cheekbones. Jordin couldn’t help but notice the beauty the girl had grown into. Six years ago Jonathan had found her, dirty and locked in a cart bound for the Authority of Passing. He had snatched her from death then, and she’d followed him with a devotion that rivaled Jordin’s own.

  Of them all, it was perhaps Kaya who maintained the most childlike love for Jonathan.

  But clearly, Kaya was no longer a child. She might not be able to fight with the same skill Jordin did, but she loved as well. There were no more eligible men her age among the remaining Sovereigns—Jordin had always thought to help her find and seroconvert a handsome Corpse from Byzantium.

  None of that mattered now.

  “You’re going to find Jonathan,” Kaya said.

  Jordin ignored the comment and made to pass, her mind on the wastelands already. Getting to them would be no easy task; she would only have one shot before the alarm went out or she found herself in real trouble.

  “Rom went to find Feyn, and now you’re going to find Jonathan! That’s it, isn’t it?”

  She rounded on Kaya, eager to shut her down. “Don’t be absurd! And don’t spread any rumors or get anyone’s hope out of balance.”

  Kaya frowned, unconvinced. “No need to snap at me. If you’re not going to find Jonathan or go after Rom, then where are you going?”

  “Kaya…. look, I wish I could tell you more, I just can’t. You’ve put your faith in Jonathan; keep it there, in him, not in me. I’m doing what I must, that’s all.”

  “You’re leaving us,” Kaya said. “You’re going to find Jonathan, and you’re not coming back unless you do.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

  On one count, Kaya was right. Jordin might not see her again—or any of them, for that matter. Jordin swallowed past the lump in her throat and clasped Kaya by her shoulders, drawing her close and embracing her.

  “I have to go, Kaya. Don’t lose faith. Beg the Maker on my behalf.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  “You can’t go where I’m going.”

  Before Kaya could push the matter, Jordin snatched the torch from the wall, dipped into a side tunnel, and took the rising stone steps in pairs. Then she extinguished the flame, drew a deep breath, and pushed aside the heavy, filthy canvas that obscured the entrance. She stepped into shadow; a thick screen of brush blocked most of the clouded sky beyond.

  The Sanctuary existed beneath the massive footings of a ruin that had never been reconstituted or demolished. Stunted shrubs had taken up residence in the most recent decades, nearly obscuring the crumbling stone.

  Jordin slipped out the opening, glancing back once to make sure the canvas had fallen over the breach in the old wall. Satisfied, she placed the glasses on her face and eased through the brush to check for passersby.

  Only fifty-eight Sovereigns had come to the Sanctuary a year ago. Fifty-eight of the hundreds that had once been so sure, so fervent in their ways, survivors of an Immortal raid on their caves south of Byzantium. They had come to the city for refuge and to escape Roland’s horde…. only to throw themselves in the way of eighty thousand Dark Bloods and two million fearful Corpses.

  The narrow path that snaked past the south side of the ruins was clear. Jordin ducked out and headed toward it, along the ruin wall. Rusted oil drums and heaps of rubble littered the vacant yard. The ancient ruin was located in a sparsely occupied section of the city far south of the Citadel. But she was about to enter the Dark Blood perimeter that monitored all activity to and from the city.

  Keeping her head down, she walked naturally, as any Corpse out for a stroll in the morning might, hands stuffed in her pockets. She was just that, she kept telling herself. An ordinary Corpse out for a walk and lost in thought.

  The first man she saw looked to be no more than in his twenties, squatting on a half wall on the far side of the compound fifty meters distant. His arms were wrapped around his knees, and he was watching her. She diverted her gaze. Had he sensed the spicy scent of her skin and breath? Which way was the wind blowing? Her pulse quickened.

  Just a Corpse like him, Jordin told herself. Nod and walk on. It’s nothing.

  So she did, without changing her pace. It had been at least a month since she’d seen a Corpse in daylight. They looked the same as any Sovereign except for the dullness of their eyes.

  She came to the edge of the abandoned complex and eased sideways through a gap in the fence that circled the rubble and ruins. She angled for an alleyway across the adjacent street, eager to cross before an oncoming bicyclist could scent her. There were far fewer people here than to the north, which lessened her likelihood of exposure. It also made her more noticeable to each Corpse she encountered.

  Only when she reached the relative safety of the alley did her anxiety subside. So far, so good.

  For an hour Jordin made her way south, cutting east and west to access alleyways, keeping as much distance as she could between herself and any Corpse by exiting those narrow ways only when the street was clear of carts, intermittent crowds of pedestrians exiting the underground, and the occasional car or truck, though they were few. The sun had climbed a third of the way into the sky by the time she reached the massive culvert that ran into the waterways beneath Byzantium’s southern neighborhoods. Dark Bloods often took up post at the end of the open drain, but likely more so as evening approached, guarding against any Immortal who might use the passage for easy entrance into the city.

  She made it halfway through the culvert
and pulled up hard. The circle of light at the far end was broken by the clear silhouette of a Dark Blood facing away from her. She glanced over her shoulder. Dark. They wouldn’t be able to see her approach.

  The sound of her footfall was another matter. Dark Bloods often patrolled in groups of four, which meant three more might be loitering nearby. The wasteland’s barren hills waited beyond. She would have to reach them without raising an alarm—Dark Bloods had no qualms about giving chase during the day.

  Jordin slung the pack off her back and pulled out the beige tunic and head wrap. Shrugging out of her vest, she changed into the lighter colors that would help her better blend into the wasteland. And then she gathered her pack and her bow and moved to within thirty paces of the unsuspecting guard. She set four arrows on the curved concrete, notched a fifth on her bowstring, and knelt to steady her aim. At this distance the steel-tipped arrow would pack the power of a pickaxe.

  She drew breath, held it, and sent the arrow directly at the Dark Blood’s head. She didn’t see it hit, but the sound of metal into bone was unmistakable. The Blood grunted once and pitched forward, dead before planting facedown on the ground. A cry of alarm sounded.

  She strung a second arrow and waited, her sighting eye trained on the culvert’s left edge, ready to switch to the other side if they came from the right. Two Bloods stepped into view fifty paces beyond the culvert, far enough to avoid any projectile. They obviously had no intention of suffering the same fate as their comrade.

  But staring into the dark culvert, they couldn’t see her. She eased to her belly and waited, eyes fixed on the Bloods, who waited to see if their attacker had taken a quick shot and ran or intended to engage them again. Bonded as they were to their Maker, Feyn, Bloods had little concern for their lives, which made them utterly fearless warriors. Brutal. Luckily, that same disregard for their own lives often put them in unnecessary danger. They rarely retreated or called for assistance, at least when Sovereigns were concerned. Immortals were a different matter, but Immortals did not attack during the day.

  She watched them discuss the matter for a full ten minutes, during which time they were joined by a third Blood. Finally one of them strode forward, sword drawn. They’d evidently concluded that a Sovereign had made the kill and ran. After all, Sovereigns were cowards in their eyes, preferring to hide rather than fight.