Sovereign

by Ted Dekker

  For the first time in years, she had an opponent worthy of interest in close enough range to engage. The first personal challenge she’d faced in years. She would relish the day that she played a similar game with Roland, but that would be a far deadlier game with much higher stakes.

  A knock at the door.

  “Enter.”

  The servant came in with a cart, knelt beside it as the aromas of roasted meat, onions, and exotic mushrooms filled the chamber.

  “My liege. Where would you like—?”

  “On the table.”

  Feyn allowed her gaze to travel down her neck to the broad neckline of her dress. Was one beautiful if she was called so by those afraid of her? Did they come, eventually, to believe it, if they hadn’t before?

  The servant was still finishing when another knock sounded at the chamber door.

  She turned away from the dark window. “Get the door,” she said to the servant, who hurried to the door and slowly drew its great bulk wide.

  Feyn folded her hands.

  Kneeling on the threshold were two familiar forms. Seth, with his godlike stature, and the figure of the man she’d known far, far longer.

  She strode forward past the servant and stopped before Rom.

  He was dressed in a simple gray tunic and trousers, wearing a pair of fine boots that were no doubt more expensive than any he’d ever worn. His hair was still damp, neatly tied at his nape. And as always, he was looking directly at her.

  Why the stirring within her?

  She smiled and reached out a hand.

  “Come.”

  He rose, and Feyn drew him toward the table. “Thank you, Seth.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw his brief hesitation before he rose and pulled the door shut. For an instant, she felt as much distaste for Seth, the creature of her own making, as she felt renewed intrigue for the man beside her. The servant finished, and Feyn waved her away, then turned to Rom, who’d lifted his head, listening in wonder.

  “Ah, the music,” she said. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s….” For a moment he looked like the impulsive young man she’d once known, eyes wandering as if to see the music in physical form. “It’s beautiful.”

  She smiled. “Still the artist at heart.”

  “Even as a Corpse, I sensed that the music I wrote was the palest shadow of something more.” The last word fell to a whisper.

  “The dead, as you call them, cannot produce such fruit.”

  “No.” His attention returned to her.

  “Will you join me?” She stepped toward the table, the chaise situated near it. “I’ve requested venison. You probably haven’t had much of it these last years.”

  He looked at the low table on which the servant had set the food. Feyn walked around the end of the chaise before it and sat down, then slid a little farther to make room for him.

  “In another life, you might have come to the Citadel with me that day. We would have dined like this for the rest of our lives.”

  “I never took you for the sentimental kind,” he said, taking a seat beside her.

  “Of these last fifteen years, we’ve spent only a handful of days together. How strange you think that. And yet it’s true.”

  “Perhaps because, in my mind’s eye, I’ve spent many days with you,” he said.

  “Oh? How many?”

  He hesitated and said only, “Many.”

  She was quiet for a moment.

  “You loved me once, I think,” she said. She lifted the heavy knife and a three-pronged fork and began to carve the venison. It fell away from the knife, tender to the bone. “I think that’s the reason for this mission of yours.”

  He said nothing as she laid a large portion of meat on his plate, to which she added steaming roasted vegetables and mushrooms dripping with butter and their own juices. She tore off a piece of bread from the loaf swaddled in the middle of the table and laid it along the edge of his plate, and then glanced at him sidelong.

  “Surely, it’s not all about Jonathan.”

  “No,” he said quietly, as she laid a napkin in his lap.

  “I’ve thought about what you said,” she said, serving herself. “And I want to know something.”

  “Of course.”

  “You came to me to save me. Why now?”

  He was silent a moment. “Because soon it may be too late.”

  “Wasn’t it too late the day Saric resurrected me with his blood?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. And I don’t believe it is now.”

  “Your blood kills Dark Bloods. But you believe that, because I took the ancient blood fifteen years ago, I would live.”

  “I’m staking my life on it, coming here.”

  She lifted her fork and glanced at him. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

  He took a bite of venison, and though she knew it had to be the best meat he’d had in a very long time, he seemed too distracted to notice its flavor.

  He swallowed the first bite. “Because I’ve never believed you were meant to be what you are.”

  “Jonathan clearly did.”

  “Sovereign, perhaps. But not this. Not a Dark Blood.”

  “A bit self-righteous, isn’t that? Are you the Maker, to decide?”

  “No. But I know what my heart’s always told me.”

  “Why? We are so similar in so many ways. We feel. We have desire. We live a life fuller than that of any common citizen. But you don’t think we’re similar at all, do you? And because you believe one thing, so should everyone else.”

  “I know it must seem that way to you. If I were in your position now, I might think the same. I just know, Feyn.”

  “And so in turning me, you hope to turn the world.”

  “I only know that right now, I’m here for you. After that….” He gave a faint shake of his head and looked at her. “I don’t know.”

  “Not the best laid plan, if you mean to bring the world to Jonathan’s knees,” she said with a quiet smile.

  “My plans have amounted to nothing. All that I thought I knew…. I was wrong. But in this moment, I know this: I came here to save you. And with the hope, too, of saving my people and yes, Jonathan’s legacy.”

  She’d left him in the hexagonal chamber in a more pliable state than this. He seemed to have recovered some of his former resolve. She shouldn’t have waited the day.

  “I’m nothing if not a woman of logic. You know I can’t afford to allow your people to undermine the loyalty of my subjects.”

  “I know.”

  They ate in silence for a minute.

  “You’re handsome still,” she said quietly. And he was, in his rugged way. More so for the hardship etched on his face and in the gray streaking back from his temples. Something about it spoke devotion. It was zealotry, of course, but what was zeal if not fanatic devotion? Seth and any one of her Dark Bloods would die for her, lose an arm, allow their skin to be flayed from their bodies for her. Because they had no choice.

  But here was a man who had chosen his way and not wavered from it, no matter how misguided and seditious that way was. That, at least, she could admire.

  She set down her fork and leaned into the back of the chaise.

  “I’m still waiting, Rom.”

  “For what?”

  “For your grand persuasion. For your clever trick. For your angle on how you will convince me, seduce me, guilt or argue me into your way of thinking. It’s what you’ve always done, isn’t it?”

  He quietly laid down his fork and knife and turned to her.

  “I know only that I love you.” He said it gently, and though she waited a beat, he added nothing else.

  “And so this is love,” she said. “That you want me to be as you are?”

  “No. This is love: that my life means nothing to me beside yours.”

  “And you would choose my life over that of your people.”

  “No. Because my life is also nothing to me beside theirs.�
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  “Ah. And so you won’t tell me where they are, even for their own sakes.”

  He glanced down and, after a moment, slid the fingers of his good hand through hers. “For their sakes, I can’t.”

  She tilted her head against the back of the chaise. The odor of him was thick in her nostrils, threatening to stifle her every breath. Was he as conscious of her lotus perfume, wafting from the warm pulse of her throat?

  “Let me put them under my protection, Rom. They’ll live in better conditions and I’ll know they mean no threat. Containing them is all I care about. They can live out their days, and I won’t care whose blood is in their veins as long as they convert no others. And you will live here, with me, if you choose.”

  “As much as I wish I could, I can’t.”

  “Which? Let me protect your people or live with me?”

  “Jonathan’s blood is far more important than you or I. I can’t allow it to die out.”

  She felt her eyes narrow slightly. “I could make you.”

  “You could only try.”

  She toyed with his fingers, so rough between hers. “I could turn you Dark Blood. As one of my kind, made by me, you would desire only what I wished. Would it be so very bad to prefer my wishes over your own if you truly love me?”

  “When I said I came knowing you could kill me, I knew that included chasing the life from my veins by turning me.”

  Talking in such calm tones, his hand in hers…. the moment was more surreal than any she could remember. But her frustration was building. If he saw it, the game would be over.

  “I’d hoped you would tell me of your own choosing.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Was he so thickheaded? She let go of his hand, afraid he would sense her agitation.

  “You would rather I turn you than offer what I ask for in exchange for preference? I have power over whether your people live or die—make no mistake, it will come to that. Don’t let it. I have wealth. Comfort. Emotion! I’m not dead. I am no Corpse.”

  He studied her eyes for a long moment then spoke in a gentle tone. “No, you’re not. But you aren’t Dark Blood either. Not entirely. It’s your only hope of surviving. The rest of your Dark Bloods have no hope. Please, Feyn, I beg you. You trusted me once. The only way you can live is by becoming who Jonathan wants you to be.”

  She gave a soft, incredulous laugh.

  “Jonathan. Everything is about Jonathan. Does he serve you in his living death as attentively as you have served him all these years? He left you, Rom. He’s gone! You say he isn’t, but where is he? You’ve given your life already—not to me, but to him. And what do you have for it? Life, you say. Are you certain? So you’re not a Corpse. But neither are you much more. You gave up Immortality. Your people are dwindling to nothing. You’ll have wasted your life…. for what?”

  Feyn could no longer mask the frustration in her voice. She got up off the sofa, stepped away from the table, and turned back.

  “You’re being obtuse. The fact is, you need saving just as much as you believe I do. You’ve lost yourself, Rom. You might have spared yourself all of this and stayed in your rat hole. At least then your people might have lived longer. But now you force my hand. You have as good as killed your own people.”

  He leveled his gaze at her, but it was concern, not fear, that filled his eyes.

  “You’re wrong, Feyn. It’s Dark Bloods, not Sovereigns, who will die.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Even though you claim we are dead already. I’ve heard it a thousand times.”

  “Not this, you haven’t. I’m here to save you, as I’ve said. There’s an alchemist among us who’s made a desperate bid to save all Sovereigns.”

  “Please, spare me the melodrama.”

  Rom came off the sofa and stood before her, eye to eye. “He’s successfully created a virus that will kill every Dark Blood who breathes in a matter of days. Your lover, the Dark Blood Seth, is as good as dead. As are you. I hoped to persuade you without threat, but we’re running out of time.”

  She felt the heat leave her fingertips and then drain from her face.

  “I don’t believe you. It’s a trick. Another of your manipulations.”

  “What reason do I have to lie to you? Why would I risk leaving my people leaderless?”

  “And if there is a virus, will it not also kill the Corpses? The Immortals? You?”

  “It will kill the Immortals. It may affect some Corpses, but few of them. It may affect our emotions as well, but no, it won’t kill us.”

  She felt laughter welling up in her throat. It bubbled up and spilled out in a melodic laugh. But she felt only fear, not humor.

  “You think I would believe such a desperate lie? What irony. The world would be returned to the rule of Corpses, and Sovereigns without full emotion would be no better than them. Everything you’ve given your life for would come to nothing!”

  “Yes. I realize it.” He was speaking with urgency now, and she knew that he believed every word he was speaking. “My people will assume you’ve already turned me Dark Blood, as subject to death as you if they release the virus. It was my best move in keeping them at bay. I’m fully committed to keeping Jonathan’s blood pure.”

  She paced away, her mind raging like a storm. Rom had bested her. And this time without mercy, if what he said was true.

  And it was, wasn’t it? Rom didn’t know how to lie.

  Feyn spun back. “You do realize that Dark Blood might kill you. It’s never been done with a Sovereign. Corban’s undecided on the outcome. And yet if I do and you survive…. you say this virus will kill you anyway. So you’re dead either way. This was your great play?”

  “If you took my blood, we would both be safe and Mattius wouldn’t release the virus.”

  “Are you such a fool? I would never take your dead blood and live in misery as you do! The only way to rid the world of this threat is to crush this virus. Now! Before it’s released. Don’t you see?”

  “If you attack, he’ll release the virus.”

  “That’s a chance I will have to take. You have to help me.”

  “I’m trying!” he thundered.

  “Tell me where he is!”

  He stared at her, jaw set. “I can’t.”

  She stared at him for a long moment.

  “Then you force my hand.”

  Her hands were trembling, but she no longer cared. With quick strides, she crossed to the great doors of the office and pulled them open. Seth stood before her, hands folded, and lifted his head.

  “Take him to the laboratory. Tell Corban. We turn him tonight.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  RISLON HAD taken Jordin back to her cell and, despite her plea to be heard the moment she’d reached a decision, had unceremoniously shut and locked the door, leaving her in near darkness.

  “We don’t have time for this!” she cried through the door.

  His receding footfall was his only response.

  Roland’s play strung through her mind. She’d asked for time and he’d granted it, but only on his terms, knowing that forcing her to stew while the hours ticked away would keep her firmly in a position of lesser power.

  Meanwhile, he would ply Kaya with the hopes of learning the Sanctuary’s location. He would fail—surely Kaya didn’t know the city well enough to give up the precise location. And even if she was able to give Roland enough detail, he would wait until dark to utilize the advantage of Immortal sight.

  Kaya had only been out of the Sanctuary once, following Jordin down unfamiliar streets. There were many ruins similar to the one under which the remaining Sovereigns were cloistered. With so little time before the release of the virus, Roland would want to be sure of his destination, assuming he believed Jordin’s warning. Strangely, he hadn’t seemed too concerned one way or the other.

  He would be soon enough.

  According to Rislon, she’d wakened at midday. Nightfall must be at least six hours away, perhaps as many
as eight. Four days was about to become three. She was running out of time!

  She’d paced in the dark cell for what felt like an eternity, rehashing her predicament, pulled apart by the impossible dichotomy warring in her mind. She had two masters now: Roland, her prince—and by extension her maker—seated in unquestioned power, brimming with the same life that flowed through her veins.

  And who was the other master? She could no longer easily identify her bond with Jonathan. A distant memory…. a voice calling to her in dreams from the beyond. Or was her master Rom, to whom she’d pledged her loyalty? Or perhaps her own consciousness, whispering in the deepest caverns of her mind?

  She was losing herself, but somewhere beyond her Immortal thoughts and emotions she had to believe that she was still Sovereign.

  But what was Sovereignty except misery? What power or wholeness had she found after the initial euphoria of rebirth had faded?

  And so here was the truth: the ways of both masters were bound up in misery and suffering. At this rate, it might be better to find death and take her chances on whatever waited beyond. But Jonathan insisted that his kingdom was of this earth, here and now among them all. Then where was it?

  Her thoughts swirled in a gray fog. This much she knew: the fate of the world rested with her choices now, and not one of them seemed to lend itself to an outcome short of doom.

  If she refused to tell the prince where the Sovereigns were hiding, she would remain Immortal, and any hope of rescuing Rom would be lost. Assuming her dead, Mattius would release the virus. She would die along with all Dark Bloods and Immortals, leaving every surviving Sovereign stripped of their full existence and under the thumb of Mattius.

  If she gave Roland misinformation to buy herself time, he would quickly learn of her betrayal and never trust her again. Without his trust, she would fail on all fronts.

  If she told him the Sanctuary’s location, he would send Cain with his Rippers and kill or take captive every living Sovereign left. Even if she successfully led Roland on a mission to rescue Rom and kill Feyn, the prince would still be in a position to kill them all and leave no trace of Sovereign blood to survive the virus. If she tried to move the Sovereigns to a new hideout, he would track her movements and find them—not that there was anywhere to take them; the Sovereigns had long run out of places to hide in the city.