“No, my friend. I’ve checked and rechecked. Jonathan’s blood is weaker now than it was two weeks ago when I last drew a sample. The effects of his blood are lessening. At a rapid pace. All the key indicators are reversing.”
Rom stared at the old man. How was this possible? It had to be a mistake! But the Keeper did not make mistakes and then ride to the cliffs to announce them in secrecy.
“What I’m saying,” the old Keeper said, “is that any who would take Jonathan’s blood today would not live as long as those who took it a month ago. Their emotions would not be as vibrant, their sight will not be as bright as it would be if they took blood from one of us.”
“So Jonathan’s blood is becoming obsolete,” Roland said.
“No! Impossible!”
“No,” the Keeper said. “Not obsolete. But certainly less potent.”
Roland stepped forward. “Then-”
“Then nothing! It only increases our urgency to get him to power. He is Sovereign and he will reign as Sovereign. Until then,
“Draw another sample at first light,” he said, before turning to Roland. “Feyn. You will get her. Immediately.”
Roland looked from Rom to Keeper then back.
He nodded. “Tell me how.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SLEEP CAME WITH DIFFICULTY for Roland that night. When his dreams finally shut out the world they were filled with images of death. Of Corpses and Dark Bloods swarming the earth in search of those few remaining Mortals left in the wake of a misguided promise of dominion.
Before returning to camp, he’d spent another half hour with Rom, stepping through the path that might lead to Feyn’s acquisition. The plan was fraught with madness, but no more than going directly after Saric or staging a coup of the Order itself-notions that had surfaced in Roland’s mind in his most far-reaching moments.
Which was more often than he cared to admit.
But a conflict with Saric would cost many Mortal lives. And though a coup might secure power in the Citadel, that power would require force to maintain.
In the end, Rom was right: the best-if not the most likely-path for Jonathan’s ascension to power would be through Feyn’s resignation of her seat. Or, failing that, some kind of irrevocable agreement granting Jonathan power in her stead. In either case they would still have to contend with Saric and his Dark Bloods, but doing so from a seat of political power would be much easier than as outcasts.
How exactly Rom planned to maneuver Feyn into agreement once she was in his grasp Roland wasn’t sure, but his insistence that they had nothing to lose held merit. If the ploy failed they could resort to more hostile measures.
But none of these thoughts were what kept him from sleep for a full hour as he lay alone in his personal quarters. He owned three yurts-one for his two concubines who’d been chosen for their fertility and health to bear heirs; one for his wife, Amile, who had given him two girls and wore her status as the sole wife of Roland with supreme pride; and one for his position as ruler of all Nomads.
He’d retired to this last yurt and reclined on a mat in the early morning, mind still circling this revelation from the Keeper about Jonathan’s blood.
Around him the rest of the camp was bedded down, oblivious to the truth-as they must be for now. If word leaked…
No.
The greatest strength of any Nomad was his resolve to independence. Generations of separatism had bred deep loyalty to their own. Now, having woken to raging passion and ambition, their desire to consume the world knew no bounds.
Life-as Mortals fully alive-was the cornerstone of their existence, and his people were determined to experience it as none else on earth could. As a race of humans who would live for many hundreds of years without subjugation. And now the Keeper seemed to be suggesting that the very source of that life was slowly waning.
Roland still couldn’t fathom the full implications of the Keeper’s news. What bearing it might have on Jonathan’s rule. How it might affect the rise of Mortals or the overthrow of Order’s oppressive regime that had squashed the world with fear. Fear of failing Order in this life. Fear of questioning truth. Of breaking from the status quo. Of veering from perfect obedience. Fear of death because in death all who failed in any way found only Hades. And everyone knew that everyone failed.
Many things were unclear to Roland, but the destiny of Mortals was not among them. Their race would throw down Order and live free from fear. Free of restraint. And he knew, too, that the task of ensuring that destiny fell on his own shoulders more than anyone else’s-including Jonathan, the vessel who’d brought them life.
All these thoughts circled relentlessly through Roland’s mind even as he slept. When he woke with the first sounds of a stirring camp outside, he ordered Maland, the longtime servant who kept guard outside his yurt, to find the Keeper and bring him immediately. Under any other circumstance he might go to the Keeper himself, but the chance of running into Rom or any other council member might undermine his intentions. He had to speak to the man without anyone’s knowledge.
An hour passed. Roland glanced over at the door flap. Heavy and set into a frame, it was made to withstand severe weather so that even in the midst of a storm, it only seemed to breathe like a diaphragm with the wind. This morning it was utterly still, a faint ray of sunlight filtering down to the yurt floor from the small wheel-like opening at the top. The yurt was furnished with a couple thick rugs and the mat he had tossed and turned on the night before. A goblet and plate of dried meat and wild plums sat atop a trunk that held several items of clothing-those that were not hung on the inside lattice of the yurt itself: several hand-beaded coats and tunics made by his wives and decorated by Roland himself. Three compound bows, including one more than three hundred years old. Several curved swords and knives, including three swords from the Age of Chaos-relics carefully preserved as reminders of the tenacious Nomadic heritage passed down over the centuries for this day.
Roland would not fail his race.
Knuckles tapped the door’s wooden frame.
Finally.
“Come.”
The door swung wide and the Keeper stepped in wearing the same robe he’d worn last night, hood over his head. It was easy enough to guess by the circles under his eyes and the sagging at the corner of his mouth that he had slept far less than Roland-if at all. But it wasn’t so much the fatigue in his eyes as the tortured questions in them that told Roland all he needed to know.
He closed the door, threw off his hood, and regarded Roland for a long moment without offering any greeting.
Roland nodded at a chair by the trunk. “Please, sit.”
The Book looked at the chair but shook his head.
“I can’t stay. I have to get back,” he said.
“To what? More testing? To be certain that our world is crumbling as we speak?”
The man said nothing.
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Test his blood again with your magic vials.”
“It’s not magic. The darker the blood turns the solution, the more potent the life within it. But yes.”
“And?”
“The color grows lighter every day.”
But of course. The Keeper was meticulous and sober-more so as of late, only rarely venturing out to join the
