Mortal

Roland was right. They had little time. “We need to reverse whatever Saric has done. You must take Jonathan’s blood.” Even as Rom said it, the image of the Dark Blood, slumped in the chair, tugged at the back of his mind.

He glanced at Jonathan. “Will it work?”

The boy nodded slowly. “It might.”

“It has to. We have to make her Mortal and figure out this problem of succession.”

“There’s something different about her,” Jonathan said quietly.

And it was true. She reeked of Dark Blood, but not in the same way as the Dark Blood earlier that morning. And Rom was suddenly certain he knew the source of the scent.

He turned to Jonathan, eyes wide with hope. “She drank the blood. The ancient blood. Not enough, but she tasted life once before.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Jonathan said, biting his lip.

“Roland.” He reached out to his second. “Stent.”

Roland withdrew the Keeper’s black bundle from under his cloak and handed it to Rom.

“Feyn-” Rom glanced up to find her looking through the great window at the dark sky outside. She turned at the sound of her name.

“We’ll begin with only a drop,” he said, laying the bundle on the bed. He released the ties and rolled it open, lifted out the gloves the Keeper insisted he use.

“You’ll need to sit still for a moment.”

“So much talk,” she said, folding her hands. “As though I weren’t truly here.”

“I’m sorry. Actually, you could take my blood-it has that property now. Any one of us can bring another to life.”

“Like Saric.”

“Yes. No. Not the same at all. There’s no blood as pure as Jonathan’s. If there’s one blood that can save you, it’s his. That’s why he insisted on coming.”

Feyn regarded Rom with a slight smile and a tilt of her head.

“Save your blood, Jonathan, for those who need saving.”

“You need saving!” Rom snapped.

“Do I? Do I look wounded to you? Like one who is sick? One near death in the Authority of Passing?”

“Authority of Passing?” Jonathan said.

She turned from Rom to Jonathan.

“Where the diseased and defective go to die, away from a fearful public. Where all who offend by their very Mortality are sent.”

Rom stared at her, struck by her choice of words. Mortality?

“Where is this center?” Jonathan said.

“You don’t know? On the southeast edge of the city outskirts. It’s where you would have been taken, born with a crooked leg as you were.”

“We didn’t come for them.” Rom fought a sudden surge of panic. “We came to help you.”

“Help me what, Rom? Give up my life again? I did that once.”

“This isn’t life you feel!”

“Isn’t it? I feel pain. I feel remorse. I feel pleasure…” She slid her gaze to Roland and back. “Ambition. Great purpose. And yes. Love. I’ve found a beautiful life, Rom Sebastian. How can you know that it is less than yours? That my love is less than the love you feel? The answer is: you can’t. I feel every bit as much beauty and joy to find myself alive now, tonight, as I ever felt once with you.”

“That can’t be,” he heard himself saying. “You’re confused. Nine years in stasis have left you weak.”

“But I’m not confused. I’m the Sovereign of the world. I am alive because of my Maker. I don’t need your help.”

“Your Maker?” Rom said, his voice rising.

She stared at him for a long time, expressing neither frustration nor hope. Perhaps her head was spinning in the pangs of rebirth.

And yet… she had experienced no rebirth. It couldn’t be.

“You should leave now,” Feyn said.

“Saric will kill you if you don’t let us help you, Feyn. You must see that. All hope will be lost!”

“You should leave. Now.”

“Please, Feyn!”

“Guard!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

NINE YEARS BEFORE, the world had found hope through the death of one woman. Today that hope was shattered by her return from the grave.

Feyn, the Sovereign of the world, once pure of heart, remade by a dark force bent on crushing Jonathan. Feyn, whom he had loved.

And now she betrayed her intention to make it permanent with a single order.

These thoughts skipped through Rom Sebastian’s mind as his reality collapsed around him, threatening to weaken him in the face of the sole task that rendered all others moot.

Save Jonathan.

The cry was still in her throat when he moved, seeing it all at a rate familiar only to Mortals, the breakneck world slowing around him.

“Roland!”

He was across the chamber in three giant strides, slamming the door shut. The Nomad was there, shoving Feyn’s elaborate dressing table-the closest piece of furniture-in front of it.

Knuckles rapped on the bedroom door. “My Lady?”

Feyn took all of this in with wide eyes, but did not cry out again.

“My Lady!” More urgent.

Rom snapped his fingers at Jonathan and waved him toward the curtained stair. “Hurry!”

Rapping knuckles became a beating fist.

Rom gestured Roland after Jonathan and was halfway across the room himself when the fist on the door struck again, this time splintering the paneled wood. The ease with which the guard broke through the door stopped Rom for a split second. He knew Dark Bloods were strong, but what strength shattered a thick door so easily?

He could hear Roland and Jonathan running up the narrow stair. With a last glance back at Feyn, still rooted to the floor, he shoved the curtain aside and bounded up after them.

“Left,” he ordered, slipping past them. “Stay to his back.”

They ran down the hall, slipped through a door at the end, and flew down another staircase that spilled into a dark room.

Rom spun back, breathing thickly. He could hear footsteps running down the corridor-cutting them off from the direction they had come in. He glanced at Roland. He had heard them, too.

He spoke low, quickly. “We go out on the surface. Through the streets.” He flipped his hood up.

To Jonathan: “Stay on my heels, stop for nothing. Ten blocks to the basilica-you can’t miss the spires in this moonlight. The tallest you can see. If anything happens, keep going.”

To Roland: “Any threat, take them out. If we get separated, we meet there.”

Rom hurried to the door that exited into the outer hall, cracked it open. He glanced out for a moment before slipping through it and then sprinted for the palace’s main entrance, around the next corner. He’d been in the Citadel under duress too often for his liking, but was now thankful for his memory of its layout.

Jonathan was close behind him. Like all Mortals, he’d learned to maximize his ability to see in a fight, which put him at great advantage against a Corpse. The Dark Bloods were a different matter, but Roland had killed four of them easily enough. If the worst found them, Jonathan should be able to defend himself until Rom or Roland could step in.