Mortal

“There’s more,” the Keeper said.

Michael interrupted: “But doesn’t it say-”

Roland cut her off with a glance. “Read it for us, Book,” he said.

The old man coughed again, wiped a fleck of spittle from his bottom lip, then read again.

“I will establish an order of Keepers, and together we will vow to keep this blood and these secrets safe for the day that boy comes. I will teach them to remember what it was to know more than fear, so that our minds will remember even after our bodies have forgotten. Though we will surely die under the curse that is Legion, we wait in hope, having abandoned the Order in anticipation of that day.”

“And that would include Nomads, I would say,” Seriph said.

“Let him finish,” Roland snapped.

The Keeper leveled a gaze at Seriph and continued: “Until then, there is enough blood for five to live for a while… Let the blood ignite the remnant who will find the boy and bring an end to this death. You who find this, you who drink, you are that remnant. Drink and know that all I have written is true. Find the boy. Bring him to power so that the world might be saved, I beg you.”

He lifted his eyes. “This last was fulfilled by Rom and those who drank the blood and found the boy. Rom, whose presence would be most welcome now.”

But they all knew why Rom wasn’t with them. It wasn’t only because he was gone, attempting to convince the Sovereign to give up her seat to Jonathan. It was also because they all knew that Rom would undermine an honest discussion as to Jonathan’s purpose. As the firstborn among Mortals, the lover of the first martyr, Avra, and the one who’d found the boy, Rom saw Jonathan as his only purpose for living. His mind-his course-was already sealed.

Roland was determined to discover if the Keeper’s was as well.

“You speak now to the descendants of those Nomads who determined to remain separate from Order since the end of Chaos, who joined with the Keepers in support of their mission centuries ago,” Roland said. “We saw the truth long before Rom did, remember that.”

“That may well be. But these words do not lie. Find the boy. Bring him to power. The text is clear.”

“If you don’t mind…” Anthony turned to the altar, one arm crossed before him supporting the other, his finger on his cheek. “Considering the context, stripped of any of the folklore that surrounds this document, I would say that what the writer’s saying is quite plain.”

“Then at least one of you has good sense,” the Keeper said.

“I would say he’s simply talking about the genetic mutations that ultimately caused Legion to revert in the same bloodline from which the virus was made. Talus was responsible for Legion, after all. He made it-”

“Not with the intention of using it.”

“Nonetheless, it came from his blood. He then calculated and predicted that the virus would revert in one child and concludes here that the boy born with that blood must bring life to the world.”

“As Sovereign.”

“Yes, in an idealistic world. But if Talus were told that the boy could not come to power, what would he say?”

To even speak this way would be considered sacrilege to many, but they could not afford to adhere to the bounds of superstition now.

The Keeper shut the book with more force than was necessary. “You say the boy can’t come to power? Do you know who you’re speaking to?” He jabbed his chest with his forefinger. “We Keepers held fast to this belief of what ‘could not happen’ coming to pass while the rest of the world blindly followed Order for centuries. How dare you inform me of who can or cannot come to power now!”

“And we honor you for it, Keeper,” Roland said. “As prince I can assure you, you weren’t the only one to guard truth for centuries. Please, let’s put the cockfighting to rest.”

To Anthony: “Finish your thought.”

The elder Nomad glanced between them.

“First a question. When was it decided that these writings were inspired by more than the sharp mind of an alchemist who, in realizing his error, wanted to return humanity to a dead world?”

The Keeper blinked at him. “They’ve always been sacred!”

“Did Talus claim his writing was sacred?”

“Keepers have always known the words of Talus to be those of the Maker.”

“Fine. Even so, the meaning isn’t clear. The boy is our hope because of his blood. The vessel is secondary to its contents. It is the blood at stake here. If the boy were to suddenly become ill and die, would his blood be wasted just because he isn’t in power? His purpose is to rescue the world with his blood, not with any other power. Unless I’m missing something.”

The Keeper looked at Roland, face ashen. You told him?

He shook his head.

“What is it?” Seriph said.

Roland held the Keeper’s eyes for a moment, then decided it was time.

“Jonathan is ill,” he said. “In a matter of speaking. His blood is reverting. In less than a week his blood will be no different than the blood of any Corpse.”

The air seemed to leave the room. Stunned stares, all around.

“Corpse?” Michael said.

Roland nodded at the Keeper. “Tell them.”

After a long pause, the old man looked around himself as though at a loss, and sighed. He told them about the tests on Jonathan’s blood, adding in a final detail that surprised even Roland.

“As of last drawing just this morning, Jonathan’s blood has lost more than half of its potency. At this rate it will be gone by the time he turns eighteen.”

“That’s in three days!” Michael said.

“Then…” Seriph’s eyes, wide with shock, shifted between the Keeper and Roland. “How will he save the world if he comes to power?”

“His blood will change again,” the Keeper said.

“Will? Or may?”

No response.

“That’s it!” Seriph said. “It’s settled. We are the world’s salvation, not the boy.”

“Quiet!” Roland snapped. “No one’s abandoning Jonathan as long as I’m prince! And you’ll find my blade across your throat if you speak a word of this to any soul. I will not rob my people of hope!”

“Agreed,” Anthony said. “It would be disastrous.”

Seriph said, “Please tell me I’m not the only one who sees the obvious here.”

“The obvious is that Order reigns in a world that is dead!” the Keeper said. “We cannot fight amongst ourselves or turn traitor to our mission-our very reason for living. The very reason we live.”

“Point made,” Roland said. “Seriph may not have the smoothest tongue, but he’s no more traitor than any of us. Please, stick to the point.”

“I’m not sure the point has been made,” Michael said. “So let me say it.”

She stepped forward and placed her fingertips on the altar. Her hands were those of an archer-strong, bronzed from hours of sun, the nails of her thumb and forefinger on her drawing hand painted black for her marksmanship, one of twenty-three in the entire tribe who were granted the same markings.

“We are facing the possible annihilation of all Mortals at the hands of Saric and his Legion. The truth is, it’s only a matter of time before he finds us. As a warrior who commands seven hundred Mortal fighters I would know one thing: how many do we sacrifice to save the boy?”

There it was.

“All of them?” She paced and spun back, flipping her hand in the air. “Why don’t we let all Mortals die, for that matter? And then who will bring life to the world? Jonathan, with his Corpse blood? He will be dead!”

Anthony turned to the Keeper. “Are you certain Jonathan’s blood is reverting to Corpse levels? You’re sure of this?”

“I’m sure of nothing except what I see in the tests.”

“What about our blood?” Anthony pressed.