Seriph, the ranking council member, had by now joined the circle of onlookers.
“The dead will bury their dead,” Jonathan said quietly. “But I would give Keenan life.”
“By breaking the law?” Maro demanded. He looked over at Seriph. “What do you say?”
Silence settled in the valley. Even the breeze seemed to take note. There had never been a direct confrontation like this within camp, or between any man and Jonathan. Where were Rom or Roland to set things straight?
Seriph eyed the Corpse boy, seeming to choose his words carefully. “The law is clear. No Corpse may enter the Seyala Valley without council approval. No more brought to life until Jonathan ascends.”
“He breaks the law in bringing a Corpse here. Tell me this isn’t true.”
Seriph hesitated. Accusing a Sovereign of breaking the law was unheard of. Even the Nomads knew that. He seemed very aware that his words might be first of their kind spoken in public by a ranking council member.
“He breaks the law,” Seriph said softly.
“He breaks the law,” Maro repeated, bolder now. He paced again, to his right then back, as an interrogator before a prisoner.
“He is the Sovereign!” Jordin cried, indignation hot in her veins.
“Our valley will not become a graveyard for the dead,” Maro said. “For every Corpse lining up to be handed a life they don’t even understand. And we will not pollute the camp with stench of Corpse!”
Maro slid his knife out of its sheath and strode toward the boy without offering up any explanation for his intention.
Jordin knew what would happen before it did-the moment Maro moved she knew.
She knew that Jonathan would move to protect the boy, regardless of Maro’s intentions. Which he did, boldly and without compromise.
She knew that she would cut in between them to protect her Sovereign. She turned on Maro, who had the audacity to slash at her. Maker, had he lost his mind?
Jordin arched back, steel hissing a bare inch from her chin, her own knife instantly in her hand.
On the edge of the circle-Seriph, staring in shock. Beyond them, Triphon, Rom-coming toward them, Roland behind them. They strode across camp, but not quickly enough.
“Heretic!” Maro hissed, circling to his left. Deliberately, she knew, to draw her from Jonathan. She turned on her heel, holding her ground.
“You know what I think, Maro? That the day before you were made Mortal you stank twice as bad as this boy.”
His eyes narrowed, muscles along his shoulders tensing with his legs. She braced herself-but with a sudden cry, the Corpse boy bolted out from behind her.
“Get back!” she shouted. Too late. Maro rushed straight for the boy. Jonathan flew between them as Jordin lunged, slashing upward. No sparring match, this-she went for the tendons. Maro’s knife dropped free, but his arm, still in full swing, connected with Jonathan. Maro’s hand struck Jonathan’s jaw, snapping his head to the side and sending him reeling back onto the boy.
And then Rom was on Maro, grabbing the zealot from behind. He threw him forward, fell onto his back, grabbed him up by the hair and slammed his forehead into the hard earth with enough force to break his nose with an audible crunch. Not once, but twice.
Maro lay unmoving. Jordin could smell the life in him, but he was mercifully unconscious.
Knee still in the zealot’s back, Rom jerked the man’s head up, his face grisly with blood. Their leader was breathing heavily, not from exertion, but from fury. Jordin had never seen such a look on his face before.
“No one touches the Sovereign!” he roared. He released his grip on Maro’s hair and let his head fall with a solid thud. “Are we clear?”
Those gathered gave no argument.
To Roland: “Take this fool away. See that he’s punished. He’s not to come within twenty yards of Jonathan again or I swear I’ll put him in chains or worse.”
Roland’s face was set as stone, but he gave a curt nod.
Behind Jonathan, soft crying from the Corpse boy. Rom considered the boy for a moment, but when he spoke next, it wasn’t to Jonathan.
“Take the Corpse back to where he came from.”
Jordin blinked. Rom had addressed her. She glanced at Jonathan. Just two mornings ago he had bowed to Jonathan’s wish to turn a Dark Blood… no matter that it had ended badly.
“But-”
“I won’t have our mission compromised. There is far more at stake here than one Corpse. Do as I say.”
She could see it then: the strain around his eyes. The dark evidence of sleeplessness the lines at the corners furrowing deeper than usual. The tension around his mouth.
She glanced from him to Jonathan, whose eyes held on hers for a moment. And then he nodded once…
Jonathan dropped to one knee, leaned in, and whispered to the boy. Tears streamed down the boy’s face. Then Jonathan got up and, with one glance at her, walked through the crowd, which quickly parted before him.
She hesitated again, torn between obeying Rom and going after Jonathan.
“I’ll see to Jonathan,” Rom said, too quietly for anyone else to hear.
Jordin nodded. Steeling herself against the smell, she took the boy gently by the hand.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go get my horse.”
The boy was trembling as she led him away. She didn’t need to look back to see that more than one steely gaze followed her.
Or to know that Saric and his Dark Bloods were no longer the only threat to Jonathan’s sovereignty.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SARIC STRODE DOWN THE CENTER aisle of the vacant senate chamber, arms clasped behind his back, black robe hemmed in red cording flowing around his feet. His eyes lifted from the majestic tapestries on the walls to the massive, ever-burning flame of Order. Feyn walked beside him, half a step behind.
He’d dressed her in white today.
One day he would reassume the Sovereign office he had held too briefly before, and she would once again be in the grave. Or perhaps he would keep her in stasis. He hadn’t decided.
“Sister?”
“Yes, brother?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her as they walked. “Is that who I am?”
Feyn’s gaze flitted to him then ahead of her once more. “You’re my Maker.”
“Please don’t forget yourself again.”
“No, Maker.”
“You may also call me Master.”
“As you like.”
“Master.”
“Master.”
Saric led her down the aisle and up to the dais. Out to the Sovereign’s white marble table at the center. He swept around and faced the great chamber, arms still clasped behind his back.
“This is where I made you,” he said.
She studied the table with dark eyes. Her face was powdered, making her pale flesh even whiter than when it was bare, the dark veins beneath like thin claws reaching up from her neck, ready to strangle her at his command.
“This is where I gave you the gift of life.” Saric turned and ran his hand lightly over the table’s surface. “It was here that I commanded you to live. How does this make you feel?”
She hesitated. “Eternally grateful.”
“And you know that he who gives life can also take it. Because those who know the purest and fullest kind of life understand that power is its greatest expression. In this way the life I offer is far greater than any the Mortals
