blood.”
“My Lord?”
He lifted the back of his hand to her face. The scent of his skin filled her nostrils again, and her pulse quickened as the craving flooded her, stronger than the first time.
Saric removed his hand. “All of my children need me, but in different ways. The ones born from their chambers need to obey me. Their loyalty is secured through alchemy. But you, Feyn, were brought to life with my own blood. Blood you require to live.”
“So… without your blood… I die?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “If I were to die, you would as well. We are truly one, you and I.”
Cold and then heat washed down Feyn’s back. She required his blood to live? Surely he was speaking in metaphorical, not physical, terms!
“How?” she asked.
“You must be injected with a portion of my blood on a regular basis or you die. It’s been three days since I brought you to life. You feel weak now, don’t you? You have a craving you can’t understand.”
She swallowed. Her fingers were trembling, and she drew them in so he would not see it and know her anxiousness over this thought.
He ran his hand over her head and down her hair to settle her. “Never fear, my love. As long as I live and you take my blood every three days, you will live a long life full of beauty and power. Tonight, Corban will help you feed.”
For the briefest of moments, she hated him. Her very life was caged! It wasn’t enough that he had her service and her loyalty, but he would rule her very survival?
Then the thought passed and she allowed other, more constructive thoughts to bathe her mind. She was alive because of Saric. Were not all creatures dependent on their Makers? So then, she should only feel gratitude for the life he had given her, regardless of what she must do to keep it. Was it not the same with the Maker of all? That the one who accepted his way need not be condemned to eternal death?
“But that is not the only reason I sent for you,” he said, his hand falling away from her. He set his glass down, leaned back in his chair, and folded one leg over the other.
“I have something I need you to do for us. The Nomads have approached me with a request. They have agreed to give me the boy in exchange for a new law that gives them full standing as an autonomous government outside of Order.”
Her interest in Saric’s blood waned for a moment in light of this new turn.
They would give up the boy? But that would mean that he would die. Surely they knew that!
Then why would Rom agree to it?
“Rom would betray him?”
“Roland, the Nomad Prince.”
Acting without Rom’s knowledge?
“And you would grant this?”
“No. Nor am I so foolish as to think they would turn the boy over. But they have also demanded to hold you until the law passes. They demand the Sovereign as collateral.”
He regarded her, rocking his one leg over the other. “What would you advise?”
She considered the question, knowing that he already had a specific answer in mind. It was his way, these questions. And she knew the answer already.
“They don’t know the depths of my loyalty to you,” she said. “But you do. Grant their request.”
His right brow lifted. “To what end, my love?”
“So that I can learn what you need to know about our enemies.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “It could be dangerous.”
“They know that if they kill me, you become Sovereign.”
“You’re saying they would prefer you as Sovereign over me?”
“I would help them believe so. It only ensures my safety and draws their trust.”
He studied her for several moments. When he spoke next, his tone had changed. Gone, the gentle Maker. Here, then, was the master who demanded absolute obedience.
“You will go tomorrow with the sole objective of learning their strengths, their true numbers, and where they hide. If possible, you will win the boy’s trust. In three days you will return. If you don’t, you will die. They must understand this.”
“And their request for an autonomy, my Lord?”
He waved a hand. “It goes nowhere. Tell them it’s in process if you must.”
“If they try to turn me?”
“They can’t. As you yourself told me, the boy’s blood is lethal to our kind.”
She nodded. Another wave of light-headedness darkened her sight. She’d felt fine again until a moment ago, and then weakness came upon her like a flood. She would have to remember how quickly life ebbed from her body.
Saric was speaking again… She hadn’t heard his first words.
“… quickly. Very quickly. In an hour you would be dead.” His hand touched hers.
“Come with me. I will feed you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ROM PACED NEAR THE BANKS of the Lucrine River, glancing up for the second time in the last five minutes to consider the position of the sun’s dull glow above a thin blanket of stratus clouds. An hour past noon. He bowed his head, willed nerves that had steadily frayed over the last hour to calm. Perhaps they had had trouble finding the place.
But no… just yesterday Saric had come here with his entire army.
A dozen scenarios collided in his mind. Perhaps Saric had reconsidered and broken his word. Maybe Feyn had been compromised or imprisoned or, worse, killed. What if the Dark Bloods had found the Mortal camp in the Seyala Valley and were marching there even now?
Perhaps Feyn had balked at the idea and refused to come. Or knew a better way. Or had a plan she would get to him via other means. Surely she wasn’t as untouched by the Mortal mission as she seemed.
He schooled his thoughts and glanced at the river where Javan, one of the men who’d accompanied him, watered his horse. He was one of the most skilled Nomadic scouts. Telvin, one of Rom’s Keepers, sat on his mount on the hill, silhouetted against the sky. He would be the first to see any approach.
The river was young in its banks, the waters of an older river that had changed course in the last half century. In the world of Order, it was the same waterway-one that had deviated from its proper path. But by Nomadic standards, the new waterway constituted a new creation, and as such had merited a new name as well. The nomads called it Chava. The name meant “life”-the battle cry, manifesto, hope, and purpose of every Mortal. The Nomadic map was littered with such altered names for valleys, grasslands, and waterways.
Here the name was well given, Rom thought. The ground offered up pine and young oak near the river’s banks, and olive trees-a small natural grove of them-some thirty feet away. The tree had meant peace in the ancient world, he was told. He hoped it would mean the same today.
Across the valley, the eastern hills opened to the southern plains. Even from here, Rom could see the evidence of Saric’s army in the churned earth. Roland’s report of the Dark Blood’s numbers had kept him awake half the night. He’d risen at dawn even more aware of the critical nature of his meeting with Feyn. It might be as doubtful as Roland insisted, but there was no better path before them. Surely, it was either this or war.
He squinted to the south, drew a long breath.
“How much longer do you want to wait?” Javan said, leading his horse up from the bank. He spoke as though Rom waited for the dead to rise.
But Rom had seen Corpses rise before.
“As long as it takes.”
