“He feels,” Jonathan said.
“Yes I think so.”
“He feels emotion.”
“That’s what we think.”
“Impossible,” Seriph murmured.
“Yes, impossible,” Rom said, his voice hard-edged. “But apparently the impossible has come to us here, today.”
Jonathan looked quietly from Seriph, to Rom, and then at the Corpse.
“He’s seen us here,” Roland said. “He’s heard too much. I would advise we kill him.”
Jonathan seemed to consider Roland before slowly turning his gaze back to the Corpse in the chair. He had just lifted his head and was blinking at them, slowly working his jaw, a heavy bruise along the pale skin of his face-a fresher one near his temple.
Jonathan walked past Roland, stopped just before the Corpse and reached out his hand.
Roland stepped forward. “Jonathan…”
Rom threw out his arm, staying the prince. The two of them stood back, posture taut, as Jonathan slowly touched the man’s head, his fingers coming to rest on the unruly dreads of his hair.
It was one thing for a warrior to touch a Corpse, but the council had agreed no unclean thing should touch Jonathan unless it be to bring life to that Corpse-a rare occurrence this past year so close to his reign. The risk was simply too great. Jonathan had to be protected at all costs.
The Corpse lifted his head to look at him, and Jordin shuddered at the cold glint of his black eyes.
“My master will see all of you dead,” the Corpse said.
“Silence!” Rom hissed. “That is your Sovereign you speak to!”
“My Sovereign is my Maker. And my Maker is Saric,” the man said.
Jonathan regarded him a moment longer and then slowly turned away.
“What do you say in this, Jonathan?” Rom said, the line of his mouth tight. “Should he go free, stay our prisoner, or die?”
“You’re asking for my advice or a decision?”
Rom hesitated, glanced warily at Roland. Anyone close to Jonathan knew that he had never expressed an interest in exercising explicit authority to make specific decisions that affected the safety of Mortals.
“Your decision,” Rom said.
Jonathan looked from him to Roland. “None of those. Make him Mortal.”
For a moment, no one could respond. Not a sound, not a movement.
Then Triphon and Seriph were their feet. Roland’s glare fell on Rom, its meaning unmistakable.
“Jonathan… are you sure?” Rom said.
“Yes. Make him Mortal. Give him my blood.”
“We can’t waste your blood on new Corpses,” the Book said, voice wavering. “We put a moratorium on it for a reason.”
Rom lifted his hand. “Jonathan is our Sovereign. He has spoken. We do as he wishes.”
The man in the chair was looking from one of them to the other in confusion. “I don’t want your blood.”
“Because you don’t deserve it,” Seriph said, spitting at him.
“Do it!” Rom snapped. “Now!”
The Keeper moved to the altar, lifted up the edge of the silk draping it. There, in the altar, was a heavy iron ring. He pulled on it and an entire portion of the stone slid open with a grinding scrape. Reaching inside the stone drawer, he drew out several implements: a stent nearly eight inches long, hollow and tapered to needle sharpness on either end, and a piece of cloth. Brown, Jordin thought-but then she smelled it, even from here.
No. Stained in blood. Jonathan’s blood.
Jonathan knelt on one knee next to the Corpse, rolled up his sleeve, and propped his forearm on the chair arm as if it was just another day of bleeding. The Corpse in the chair looked wildly around.
“What are you doing? You will kill me! Please, you can’t do this!”
No one answered.
The Keeper knelt down in front of them, took out his knife, and cut away the sleeve of the tunic the Corpse was wearing beneath his armored vest and quickly disinfected his arm and Jonathan’s wrist. Dropping the sleeve to the floor, he leaned over Jonathan first, blocking Jordin’s view, but she didn’t need to see to know what was happening now: one end of the stent sliding home into the short, permanent sleeve inserted into the vein in the crook of his arm. Jonathan turned slightly, as the old alchemist guided the other end into the vein in the Corpse’s arm. The Corpse grimaced.
Silence in the chamber, except for the breathing of the Corpse. As it grew heavier and more labored, Jordin could not help but remember the day of her own rebirth-the fiery pain of it, like acid through her veins. The way it had subsided into a warmth like that of drink, but more languid, more exuberant, so that she could feel the drumming of her heart too loudly in her ears, as though it had begun to beat for the first time.
The elation. The gratitude. The overwhelming sense of strange loss. Her sudden urge-need-to weep. The way she had collapsed in the old Keeper’s arms, her eyes unable to look away from Jonathan. To see anything but him. Her need to cling to some vision like an anchor against the wave that threatened to overtake her.
The Corpse suddenly gasped. Strained against his bonds. The Keeper was swiftly removing the stent, first from him, and then from Jonathan, taking care to wipe the blood from his skin with the cloth. She could smell it, even from here, well beyond the reek of the Corpse, that was rapidly… changing.
The Keeper stepped away, but Jonathan remained kneeling, looking at the man as he began to breathe deeply, and then to pant, as though in great pain. With a sudden grimace, he arched his back. And then his expression stretched and then fixed into wide-eyed horror.
He stopped there, frozen.
Jonathan looked quickly at the Keeper, who rushed forward, obscuring Jordin’s vision of that hideous face, as the Keeper slapped him, lightly at first, and then with a ringing blow. The man’s head fell to the side.
The Keeper turned around. The look on his face was stunned.
“He’s dead.”
Jonathan was looking between them, at the man’s arm and then his own. The council members were getting to their feet, rising in slow shock.
“Impossible,” Rom said faintly.
“He’s dead,” the Keeper said again.
“How can that be?”
“I don’t know.”
Jonathan staggered to his feet, pale.
Jordin had just moved out of the row of seats to go to him when one of the double doors flew open.
Smell of Corpse-true, mundane Corpse-blew in with the sudden gust of air through the columns outside. A man, dressed in the clothes of the city.
This was Alban, a Corpse spy loyal to Rowan and paid heavily by the Mortals to watch events at the Citadel and ordered to report as needed. As such, he was loyal to the Regent of Order as well as determined to remain Corpse until such time that Order permitted his Mortality.
Which would be never.
“Forgive me,” Alban said, striding down the aisle, right for Rom.
“What is this?” Triphon said, moving to stand in front of him.
“I’ve brought a message from the Citadel,” the Corpse said, staring around himself nervously. He positively reeked of fear.
“Yes?” Rom stepped past Triphon. “What is it?”
“Feyn’s body.” He cleared his throat. “It’s missing.”
CHAPTER SIX
