She could get him out. There was still time. She closed her eyes.
When she opened them, he was already moving off toward the gate.
She unbuckled the sword slung over her hips and hung it on the saddle next to her bow and quiver. But she left the knife tucked into her boot, conscious of its presence against her ankle as she rushed after him.
A door off the side of the gate opened and a uniformed guard stepped out. Six foot tall. Close-cut hair. He reeked. Not just of Corpse, but of the same stench emanating from the smokestack within the compound. But he was common Corpse. Not Dark Blood.
“What are you doing here?” His eyes searched both of them, lingering on Jonathan’s Nomadic braids and then his embellished tunic and then on her, before narrowing slightly.
Jonathan looked him straight in the eye. “We’ve come to turn ourselves in.”
It was all Rom could do to stop and rest the horses. Given the choice, he would have ridden them into the ground.
“We’ll kill the horses if we don’t rest them,” Triphon shouted.
“If we don’t make it, nothing matters!”
“And we’ll have less chance of getting Jonathan safely out without mounts.”
The urge to run the rest of the distance was nearly more than he could bear. But Triphon was right-his mount was frothing along his coat. They’d soon be on foot at this rate.
They stopped by the side of a brook just outside the city.
“What was he thinking?” he said, pacing.
Triphon was silent. He’d taken out the food. Neither of them touched it.
“What was he thinking?!”
“You know what he’s thinking.”
Rom had heard the story about the night they escaped from the city. Triphon was right, more than he knew. He knew exactly why Jonathan had gone to the city, and for whom.
The girl in the cart.
But how did Jonathan dare risk the future of Mortals? Surely he realized how shortsighted he was being to bring one Corpse back to life!
He had effectively multiplied his blood by bringing the twelve hundred Mortals to life-perhaps that had been the intent all along.
No. The world needed its Sovereign. He was meant to rule. He
But first, he must live.
“That’s long enough,” Rom said, striding to grab his horse’s reins. Triphon shook his head, but did likewise.
Thirty seconds later, they were riding hard again.
“To turn yourself in,” the guard said, looking from Jonathan to Jordin.
“Yes,” Jonathan said. “The paperwork should be coming. We volunteered to come immediately out of obedience. For the hope of Bliss. But if you could take us inside now…”
He wasn’t adept at lying-he had never had to be.
Neither had she.
Jordin looked away, fearing that he would see in her the impulse to slice open his throat if he so much as laid a hand on Jonathan. Which she would.
He was frowning at Jonathan’s braids again as one who frowns while trying to remember the words to a song, not quite there, but on the tip of the tongue.
“You must be from the west side of the city.”
“Yes. The west. Our parents are… artisans.”
“Sumerian then. You’re not wearing your amulet.”
“We took them off already, to leave with our families. In remembrance of us.”
“What’s wrong with you that they’ve sent you here?”
Her gaze flicked to Jonathan whose attention had drifted from the man to the yard through the gate. Beyond, two rows of long buildings with small, industrial-sized windows-none of them open-ran all the way to the back perimeter. There were perhaps thirty of them in all.
“I’ll make a call,” the guard was saying. “It’s not every day we get volunteers.”
“No,” Jordin said, her attention snapping back to him. “He was born with a crippled leg. He’s fine now, but he hid it for so long, he’s concerned about-about Bliss. About his status with the Maker. We attended basilica together. We confessed to the priest and he advised us…” Was she even getting any of this right? It wasn’t like she’d ever attended basilica in her life.
“And you?”
“I…” She remembered then, a story she had heard once, about Rom’s lover, the first martyr. “I spilled lantern oil on myself two years ago. I hid it-from everyone. Under these clothes, I’m completely scarred. I’m supposed to be married…” Her gaze drifted to Jonathan, but he was lost to them both. “And the secret will come out soon. I can’t bear it. I’m tired of hiding. I want to be right… with the Maker.”
She realized belatedly that she wasn’t sure what she would do if he demanded to see evidence.
The guard grunted. His gaze was tinged with every indication that he would be finished with them both as quickly as possible. Association with the damaged and the imperfect was not a thing anyone craved-even a guard doing his job.
“Suit yourselves. You’ve obeyed the statutes-and for that you may find Bliss.” He said it as one who has spoken the same words many times, words without meaning except to those who heard them.
“We understand.”
“Sign.” He tapped an opened ledger across the top of which was inscribed its title:
Jordin suppressed a shudder, her mind skipping to the Book of Mortals on the altar of the inner sanctum. It seemed profane for her name to be inscribed anywhere else.
Jonathan was staring at the smoke rising from the stack, oblivious to them. The guard noted his stare and frowned.
“What did you expect, boy? People are sent here to die. Most are terminal anyway, but you know that. As soon as your paperwork’s processed, we’ll release permission for your funerals, but as far as the Order’s concerned, you’re already dead. Get used to it. Sign.”
So… It was true, the stories. Jordin took the pen and scrawled
“How long does it take to die here?” Jonathan asked.
The guard shrugged. “We don’t have the resources to support you for that long. It isn’t fair to the living to be taxed on behalf of supporting the dead. Everyone here has a one-year limit.”
One year?
The guard tapped the book and handed the pen to Jonathan who absently took it and wrote his true name: “Jonathan Talus.”
Jordin glanced sidelong through the iron gate. Here and there a few forms moved about on concrete pathways between buildings. They walked with the posture of those who had nothing to offer, of those unacceptable by Order’s standards, who might find acceptance only in their resignation of what little life they had, and the hope that obedience might earn a better hereafter.
What kind of Order could so twist the minds of its faithful to live in death?
“Your horses will be sent to the Citadel stables or the butchers. Anything you have of value will be put toward the considerable expense of the Center.”
She nodded, but her attention had gone to Jonathan, who had stepped up to the gate to grasp it by two iron bars.
“Anything of value?”
“No,” Jordin whispered. Nothing but the knife in her boot. A weapon no Corpse would be caught dead with, so
