Mortal

“Then we’ll hope so,” Rom murmured.

Michael stepped in front of what had been Seriph’s seat. “How can you say that?”

“No, he’s right,” Roland said, frowning, deep furrows across his forehead. The Nomadic ruler rarely betrayed concern, but he had to be as unnerved as the rest of them, Rom knew. There was no better man to have at his side.

“If Saric has Feyn in hiding, we have as little chance of finding her as we do of finding these other Dark Bloods. But if he installs her as Sovereign we know where she’ll be. It’s our best hope.”

“To what end?” Triphon demanded. “If she’s Sovereign already, Jonathan is finished!”

“Hold your tongue!” Rom snapped.

Triphon stared at him and then looked away.

In all of this, Jonathan hadn’t moved once from the side of the dead Dark Blood. He watched them now with silent eyes. His was not the look of a world leader on the cusp of losing his reign, but neither was it the reaction of a naive boy. There was far more happening in that mind, Rom was sure, than perhaps even Jordin knew.

To date, everything predicted by the first Keeper, Talus, four hundred and eighty-nine years earlier, had come to pass. There could be no doubt about the veracity of the first Keeper’s claims. The fate of humanity rested on Jonathan’s shoulders, and Rom was prepared to give his life to see that fate fulfilled.

Never mind that Mortals could now make other Mortals with their own blood, rendering Jonathan’s blood redundant, as some had recently begun to whisper.

Never mind that no one knew just how Jonathan would bring life to the world. Or that the zealots in particular were far more interested in protecting Mortals as an elite race than seeing any more Corpses come to life.

Never mind that Jonathan had shown neither defining desire nor expected aptitude for ruling the world as Sovereign.

Everything Rom and the Keepers had done had been with one purpose in mind: to bring Jonathan to power as required by the sacred vellum written by Talus. Nothing else mattered now.

Nothing.

A single tear broke from Jonathan’s eye and snaked down his right cheek.

“Jonathan?” Even in the midst of sick unease about Feyn’s disappearance, Rom felt a tug of empathy for the boy chosen to carry the world’s burdens. “Forgive us. No harm will come to you, I swear it on my life.”

Jonathan dipped his head, barely. “You have a good heart, Rom. It’s Feyn I worry for.”

Of course Jonathan’s heart was drawn first to the woman who’d paid a terrible price for him. The woman Rom himself had led into life once, if only for a short time.

Desperation thickened in his chest.

As he turned to the others, his mind was already set, but he would at least act in deference to the Nomadic way.

“Roland. Your recommendation.”

The prince spoke after only brief consideration: “If we knew where these Dark Bloods gathered and the full nature of their defenses, we could take them and Saric with them. They’re very strong and we’re outnumbered, but we have seven hundred fighters with unequaled skills and Mortal perception. We would destroy them.”

“Even if we knew where,” Rom said, “slaughtering them would go against everything Jonathan stands for.”

Roland gave a nod. “You asked. I speak my mind. Either way, we don’t know where they are. So we go for Feyn.”

Rom faced the old Keeper. “Book?”

“You must find Feyn…” He rubbed at his head, shaking it. “Saric will have moved quickly. If she isn’t Sovereign already, she will be soon.”

Michael said flatly: “So we find her and do what?”

“She has the ancient blood in her,” the Book said. “She’ll hear you, Rom. That’s our one hope.”

Yes. It was.

“Roland, you’re with me.”

The Nomad nodded.

“We ride for Byzantium.” Rom stepped toward the door.

He had taken two steps when Jonathan’s voice sounded from behind him.

“I will go.”

Rom stopped. Turned around. “No.”

Jonathan was on his feet. “I must go. She loved you, Rom, but she died for me. My blood is stronger than any other Mortal. I’ll go to Feyn.”

He had never been beyond the perimeter of protection. He’d never stepped foot in any town or city since the day he had entered Byzantium as a boy to make claim to the Sovereign throne. He’d never even seen a Corpse beyond those who came to camp.

“I can’t allow that.”

“He goes,” the Book said, crossing to the altar, retrieving the stent where he had left it. “We may not have a second chance.”

“Then I go as well,” Jordin said, stepping toward Rom.

“Out of the question.”

“She goes,” Jonathan said, eyes on the olive-skinned girl.

Michael flung up her hands and began to protest, but Roland stopped her with a raised palm. “Jonathan’s right. Jordin goes. She’s one of the best fighters we have.” To Michael: “You will stay with our people.”

Rom looked from one to the other, then to Jonathan, whose arm was already in the Book’s grasp, the stent going in to the vein.

Blood? Now?

“What are you doing? We don’t have time!”

“I need to know what happened.” The Book glanced at the dead Dark Blood. “You’ll be gone for a day. And I need to know now.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

DOMINIC PACED BEHIND the heavy desk in his office, staring at the bookshelves. Staring without seeing. He needed to consult the texts. The commentaries on the Book of Orders. He needed counsel. He needed Rowan.

Rowan, whose head had all but toppled off his neck, blood spurting into the air…

What abomination, what profane act, had he just witnessed?

He shook his head, suppressing terrible fear. Not for Rowan, but for himself at the spectacle of death.

Saric’s claim that they were all dead still rang in his ears. Perhaps the most blasphemous words ever spoken in the senate chamber.

Dominic stared out the window and willed himself to feel something other. Other than horror. Other than abject fear at what he had just witnessed.

But he could not. Gone were the sentiments of a baser age called Chaos. Humanity had risen above them and peace had reigned.

It simply wasn’t possible that a virus had changed them genetically as claimed by Saric.

We know the Maker exists by his Order. It was the first line of the liturgy. The most basic statute of Order. Order was the hand of the Maker. To question Order was to question the Maker. By that alone, he knew Saric’s claims from the dais for sacrilege. That whatever dark blood flowed in Saric’s veins was anathema.

And yet… he had brought his sister back.

So then… it was possible to bring a body back from stasis. There was no end to Alchemy. Megas had been an alchemist-was it possible that he’d crafted this virus called Legion?

The thought stung Dominic’s mind. No. There was only one truth, given by the Maker in the way of Order as