power in this boy evoked such powerful expression, devotion, and loyalty from others?
The roar coalesced into a chant:
Jonathan stood still, unpretentious, making no sign that he was embracing their praise or that he longed for it. Only when Rom lifted his hand did the last chants die down. He looked at Jonathan and nodded.
The boy faced them, silent for a few seconds. And then their Sovereign spoke:
“Do you celebrate the martyrs?”
Shouts of agreement.
“You celebrate their blood, shed for me. For the new kingdom, for the Sovereigns of the new realm to come. You celebrate my blood, given for you.”
Roaring agreement from the Mortals.
“Then you celebrate not only life, but death.”
This time, a confused response. They waited, anticipating more. And the boy gave it to them.
“Because that death brings life.” He beat his chest once with a fist. Now he leaned into words and his voice rose, nearly accusing. “You want blood?”
Cries, frenzied from the assembly. Next to Feyn, Roland frowned slightly. Rom glanced away from him, seemingly unsure.
Jonathan suddenly spun and took three long steps to the canvas bowl that held Avra’s heart. He dipped his hands into the bowl and scooped a remnant of blood out with both hands. And then he splashed it on his chest and smeared his face, his hair his torso.
The drumbeats drifted as if those responsible had forgotten to beat them.
Jonathan whirled around and raised both fists in defiance. “Death, for life!” he shouted. His teeth and eyes gleamed macabre white behind the mask of blood.
The crowd fell deathly silent.
But their Sovereign was not finished. He grabbed the canvas vessel and tilted it so that a fresh torrent of blood fell down over his hair and chest, darkening the flax of his loincloth to match the rest of him.
Even from where she stood, Feyn saw the mask of shock on Rom’s face. He made for the boy, then stopped, at a loss.
Jonathan plunged his hand into the canvas bowl, pulled out a bloody fist, and stared at his fingers. The heart which Rom had ceremoniously placed in the bowl bulged in his hand.
Gasps now, from those assembled. Feyn stared, stunned. The celebration clearly had taken an unplanned turn. Those in the throng cast about furtive glances as strange silence settled around them.
Was the boy drunk? Mad?
“He’s lost it,” Roland muttered beside her.
“For now…” Jonathan staggered forward, holding the heart high. He opened his hand and the heart fell to the ground with a sickening, wet thud. “Let the dead bury the dead,” Jonathan said.
Five paces away, Rom stared. The last of the drums stopped. The entire celebration had come to a standstill.
Rom laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder but he batted it away. When he spoke again, it was in a quiet voice:
“You won’t know true life until you taste blood.”
As though desperate to find something worthy of celebration, someone shouted agreement.
“You came for life! I will give you life! I will bring a new Sovereign realm!”
A cry rose, immediately joined by more. The drums returned as though relieved, like a heart stuttering back to life after arrest.
“Life!” he screamed. “Life!” He spread his arms and began to dance. His movements were wild, jerking like blood spurting from an artery.
The crowd didn’t seem to care, relieved to return to its celebration in ways more fevered than before. Dancers leaped up at the sky again, holding others aloft as though to pull down the stars.
A figure raced up the steps, taking them two at a time. A young girl on the cusp of womanhood, clad only in a sarong, thick braids flying.
“Kaya,” Roland muttered. “She’s the girl he took from the Authority of Passing.”
The girl leaped up the last step, impulsively set her hands in the blood at her feet, and smeared it on her face and chest. She curled her hands into fists, tilted her head to the sky, and began to dance like Jonathan, stomping naked feet into the blood as it spattered onto her legs.
Jonathan grabbed her hand and together they ran down the steps where no less than two dozen children were gathered-as nearly a hundred more ran out to join them in their frenetic dancing. As one they hopped and whirled, arms raised, laughing as the drums thundered approval. The sight of so much rapture filled Feyn with a strange longing to be a child once again, this time with the full emotion with which they celebrated.
She glanced up then, her eyes prisms of firelight.
Up on the stage, Rom stared at the fallen heart, all but trampled underfoot.
CHAPTER THIRTY
FEYN CLOSED HER EYES, attempting to shut out the sounds of drums pounding in her skull, as the celebration outside wore relentlessly on. Never had the gulf in her mind been so deep, never the darkness so bottomless, never her confusion so great.
She couldn’t escape the certainty that she clung to a razor-thin wire as storm winds raged, threatening to tear her fingers free. She would fall, but fall into what? More darkness… or freedom?
The only true freedom she’d found since returning to life had come during those hours of absolute submission to Saric. And yet another Maker called to her now. A boy who had once required her death so that he could come to power. Succumbing to the Mortal’s call now would end in another death, she was sure of it.
They’d brought her back to the yurt a couple hours ago when the sheer pain of the Nomadic drums in her temples had become unbearable. A guard stood outside-she could hear him calling occasionally to others in the main camp, clearly disgruntled by his removal from the main body. If the last hour was any indication, he would eventually be relieved and replaced by another so that no one guard would go without his fill.
She’d considered cutting her way out the back of the yurt and making a run for it. She didn’t know where this valley was, only that it was far north of the city. If she headed south she would eventually come across a road or a river or some other landmark, surely. But it would only be a matter of time before they discovered her missing and recaptured her. If folklore about the Nomads was true-and so far all of it had proven accurate-they were expert trackers.
But even if she could escape, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Something else called to her here.
Images of the wild boy crying out from the ruins barraged her thoughts as she sat on the thick mat that was her only furnishing and stared at the lone lamp that lit her prison. His words had stirred more awe and mystery than offense-not only in her mind, but in the minds of those who called him Sovereign. She’d seen it on their faces, heard it in the hush before doubt had given way to revelry’s more persuasive sway.
She hadn’t had an opportunity to talk to the boy, but now she wasn’t certain what such a talk would achieve.
The sudden image of Saric pushed thoughts of the strange boy aside, calling her back to reason. This much she knew: Saric’s blood had given her life, made her Sovereign, and filled her with peace to the extent that she embraced that life. Deviation from Saric, her office, or her existence through him only brought her confusion-the confusion she felt so keenly now, in the Mortals’ camp.
Feyn lay back on the mat and stared at the yurt’s framework. Rom’s undying idealism had plied her mind more than she’d thought possible. Memories of him had stirred her like an eddy muddies the waters of a river. And yet even nostalgia paled next to Saric’s siren call.
