Mortal

“That’s your only suggestion? To assassinate Saric and engage his army?”

The Nomadic Prince studied him. “You have another?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Here it was, then. “We take her.”

Roland stared at him for a moment. “Take who?”

“Feyn.”

“Take Feyn. Just like that. You think Saric is going to just hand her over? She’s the Sovereign of the world!”

“Yes. I think he will.”

“And assuming Saric would do something so foolhardy, what do you plan to do with her? Seduce her?”

Rom reached for the flask. “I’m going to talk sense to her.”

A twitch at the corner of Roland’s mouth. “I know you had something with her once and I can’t say I blame you. But whatever it was, it’s gone. You saw her.”

“I didn’t have something with her before. But she has the ancient blood in her. Maker knows-I gave it to her! Give me a few hours with her and I’ll make her remember who she is and why she died.”

“You saw her eyes. She’s not going to help us.”

“She will.” But even as he said it, Rom felt again that vague sense of encroaching panic.

Feyn’s eyes, once the celebrated Brahmin gray, haunted his memory. They had been her trademark to the world before the black of Saric’s alchemy had obscured them. The true Feyn had to exist somewhere beneath those inky depths.

“She’s Saric’s pawn. He’s her Maker now,” Roland insisted.

“No. She has the ancient blood in her.”

“She has her Maker’s blood in her now.”

“I was her Maker!” Rom thundered.

Roland held his gaze steady but said nothing.

Rom turned away, relaxed his balled fists. He’d gone over and over it for hours on the ride back-the way she’d looked at Jonathan. The tear from her eye. Something had moved in her. The way she’d hesitated before calling for the guard. She was loyal to Saric, but she was also confused. Disoriented. In a freer context, she would surely see the truth. There was no other way without risking all-out war.

“She’s our best play.”

“Our best play is to act now. Come down on Saric like a hammer. Slaughter him. Wait for his Dark Bloods to come raging and crush them in one blow.”

“I won’t commit our destiny to a single campaign that could backfire and invite military hostility toward Jonathan-not while we have other options.”

“Taking Feyn from Saric, assuming it’s even possible, will have exactly that effect!”

“We aren’t going to take her from Saric.”

Roland lifted his brows.

“Saric’s going to give her to us.”

“He’s going to give her to us. Of course. Now why didn’t I think of that?”

“Maybe because your mind is on blood. Maybe because you haven’t tangled with that monster before the way I have. Maybe because you don’t know Feyn as I do.”

“As you did, you mean,” Roland said. He sighed, squinting at the rising sun and then back at Rom. “So just how do you get Saric to hand over the Sovereign of the world to his enemies? Enlighten me.”

Rom paced, hands on his hips. “I don’t. You do.”

“Me.”

“Yes. You alone.”

“I see. And I do this how?”

“You offer him what he wants.”

“Which is?”

Rom hesitated a beat, gripped by a sense of betrayal at the mere thought of what he was about to voice.

“Jonathan,” he said.

Roland’s unblinking gaze held his own. For a moment neither of them spoke.

“He’ll never believe it.”

“He would never believe me. But you, the wild Nomad prince with ambition and blood in his veins…”

“He’d suspect a trap. Saric’s no idiot.”

“Of course he’ll suspect a trap,” Rom said.

“How would I even approach-”

“By doing exactly as I say,” Rom said. “I know the Order. I know the Brahmins and I know Saric. I’ll lay it all out for you and you can judge the plan as you like. All I ask is that you put thoughts of war from your mind. Follow me in this, Roland. I could command it, but I’m asking. For Jonathan’s sake.”

Roland crossed his arms and then said slowly: “For the sake of Mortals. All right. Feyn it is. Assuming you’ve thought of everything.”

“I have.”

The sound of a hoof scattering pebbles clattered behind them, and Rom spun, hand already on his knife.

“Easy.” The old Keeper’s voice grated through the night.

Rom stepped forward as the Keeper’s horse ambled toward them in the early dawn. “Book. What is it?”

The old Keeper stopped his horse and slid cautiously to the ground without answering.

“Who told you we were here?” Roland said.

The man looked up, adjusted his tunic where it had bunched around his hips. “You don’t think I know where to look?”

Rom exchanged a quick look with Roland and then addressed the Keeper.

“So?”

“I have news.”

“What news.”

“About Jonathan’s blood.”

They waited as the Keeper seemed to search the still-dark western sky.

“Well?” Rom said at last. “What about Jonathan’s blood?”

“I tested it with the Dark Blood’s own and there’s no doubt about it.”

“About what, man?”

The old man shook his grizzled head. “That his blood is poisonous to these Dark Bloods. Even a drop of Jonathan’s blood would kill one.”

The poisonous aspect was obvious, if the quantity that it would take was not. So why the urgency?

The image of Jonathan offering Feyn his blood suddenly flashed before Rom’s mind with a prickle of panic.

No. She had the ancient blood in her veins.

“You came here to tell us what we witnessed with our own eyes,” Roland said.

“No. There’s something else.”

“Well?”

“Mortal blood, any Mortal blood-not only Jonathan’s-would kill these Dark Bloods as well.”

Roland arched a brow. “So I could kill them all with only my own blood. We have a new weapon.”

“Yes. And in fact your blood, Nomad, would kill them more quickly than Jonathan’s.”

Roland narrowed his eyes, and Rom could all but hear the thoughts whirling through his mind like a desert dervish.

“What do you mean would kill them more quickly? How is that possible?”

The Keeper turned his eyes to Rom.

“Because his blood and your blood-all of our blood-is now stronger than Jonathan’s.”

Rom blinked. “Stronger? That’s impossible…”