the Maker he was safe.
Her second thought was that her Sovereign had gone far. On a horse. Very far. Without anyone’s knowledge.
She had to reach him first. She had to be by his side when he came into camp. She had to know where he’d been.
Jordin ran to the rocky outcrop where she’d climbed up from the knoll, swearing to never leave him alone for more than an hour ever again. Not so close to his ascension.
She flew through the foothills, questions drumming through her mind. Down the last hill to the valley floor, running the half mile across the shallows of the river, cutting through camp, leaping over fires still smoldering from the night before.
Heads turned. Children paused their playing to look up. Warriors stared, mothers turned from their cooking and shouted after their children, who came trotting after her. The sight of Jordin running through camp in such haste was rare and could only mean one thing: Jonathan.
He was just coming into the south side of the camp when she caught sight of him, his stallion at a steady walk. She ran faster.
Only then did she see that others were staring his way. Not just watching but rooted to the ground. Fixated. She reached the steps of the ruins when she realized what everyone else was staring at.
He wasn’t alone.
Jordin pulled up short next to a dozen others, gathered to watch his return. There, behind him on his horse, was a second figure. Smaller, peering around Jonathan, clutching him by the waist. A boy, barely twelve, if that.
His scent hit her like a gust of hot wind.
Corpse.
Bringing any Corpse into the valley was an express violation of Nomadic law. Other than the spies who came to meet with Rom, she hadn’t seen a Corpse outside Byzantium since the last of the Mortals had been made. That was before the moratorium years ago.
A figure came stalking out into the clearing before the ruin stair, dark beads glinting in his hair, followed closely by another. The hair stood up on her arms.
Maro the zealot.
She hurried forward as several others came out of their yurts, noses covered by cloth or hands.
“What is that odor of death?” someone said behind her.
“Corpse!” She knew the booming voice well: Rhoda, the belligerent blacksmith who hit wine as hard and often as she hit steel. “Good Maker… He’s brought a Corpse to camp…”
Jonathan did not slow, did not show any concern. He wore a mask of simple resolve, as though the looks of shock had nothing to do with him at all.
But Jordin knew better. Her sovereign might be quiet much of the time, but his intelligence was superior in ways that few knew as well as she. And his powers of observation were keener than even Roland’s.
The first time she’d seen it, they been at the lookout above, two years earlier, legs dangling over the cliff, watching the camp far below. After half an hour of silence, Jordin had braved a question.
“My Sovereign?”
“Yes?”
“May I ask a question?”
He’d looked at her, mouth curved in amusement. “If I can ask one first.”
“Of course.” Then she added, “My Sovereign.”
“Will you call me Jonathan instead of Sovereign?” he asked.
She assumed the more formal title more appropriate-especially from one without position like her.
“Jonathan?”
“I like the way you say it.”
“Jonathan.”
His smile widened. “Thank you.”
In retrospect, she thought she’d fallen in love with him in that moment, staring into his bright hazel eyes, which never wandered from her own.
“Your turn.”
“Mine?”
“Your question?”
“Oh… Yes. I was wondering. What goes through your mind when you watch the camp for so many hours?”
He looked at the valley below, lost again in thought for a few moments.
“There are twelve hundred and eleven Mortals alive today. They all live in this valley. Seventeen are in the river now, bathing. Five hundred and fifty-three that I’ve seen have ventured out of their yurts this morning. Just shy of seven hundred still slumber, most of whom did not sleep until early morning. Three hundred and twelve danced around the fire last night…” He faced her. “I know all of their names.”
She was astonished at his powers of observation, the keenness of his memory.
“I think about every soul who has taken my blood, Jordin. They are forever bound to me. And some day their number will be more than I can count. I worry that I can’t know them all.” His eyes were misted as he said it. “What if I lose track?”
Or perhaps it was with those words and those tears that she’d fallen for him.
Now that same young man rode into town on his horse with a boy behind him, face turned against Jonathan’s back, white fingers clutching his waist. Her Sovereign whom she loved more than her own life was bringing a Corpse among the Mortals. One whose name he would never forget.
He stopped adjacent to the steps to the temple ruins, ten paces from a loosely formed arc of expectant observers. Maro took two steps forward and stopped. Roland’s cousin was dark haired, hook-nosed, and famous for his notched arrows that screamed when put to flight.
Silence stood between them. The horse twitched its plaited tail, oblivious.
“What is the meaning of this?” Maro finally said.
“His name is Keenan,” Jonathan said. “He needs our help.”
Jordin eased forward and placed herself just back and off of Maro’s right shoulder, bothered already by the warrior’s tone. Behind Jonathan, Keenan had lifted his shaggy blond head and begun to stare fearfully about him.
“He’s a Corpse,” Maro said evenly. “Bringing a Corpse into our perimeter is strictly forbidden.”
Jonathan considered Maro for an even moment, and then silently lifted Keenan down from the saddle before dismounting behind him. The boy, a full head and a half shorter than Jonathan, was trembling. The closest Corpse outpost that Jordin knew of was nearly four hours’ ride from here. Had the young Sovereign gone expressly looking for Corpses to bring back?
He leaned over and whispered something to the boy, but before Jordin could wonder what it was or move toward them, Maro had stalked forward. The boy staggered a step backward, dirty face wide with fear.
The zealot nodded at Jonathan. “The law protects all of us. No one’s above it.”
“Remember whom you speak to,” Jordin bit out quietly.
Maro turned, saw her, and narrowed his eyes. “Censure from a deserter’s daughter?”
She felt the color rush to her face, hot.
Rhoda, the blacksmith, had joined the fray. “What’s this?”
“Jonathan’s brought a Corpse to camp,” Maro said, stalking to Jonathan’s right, as if to flank him. Surely he didn’t mean to actually confront him. How could any Mortal rebuke Jonathan?
Jordin moved with him, voice thick and low. “Back off.”
“What good is life if ruin finds us before the blood in our veins has come into power?”
“The blood in your veins? That blood in your veins isn’t your own. How dare you question your Sovereign?”
“It’s our blood that will allow us to rule a world of dead Corpses. And it’s our laws that protect Mortals until we can. We defend it to the death.” Maro jutted his chin toward the Corpse boy. “
He turned, looked around at the crowd. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
