Her only remaining instinct was to scream, but her lungs refused to push enough air into her throat to give it any voice. The room filled with a dreadful whimper-her own.
“When the times comes, you will deliver the world new life, Feyn. Free yourself from Saric. We will be Sovereign, you and I.”
A hand touched her cheek and she instinctively wrenched away. As if sucked into itself, the darkness receded. Light flooded the room.
Feyn stood, trembling, staring into Jonathan’s somber hazel eyes. The lamp still burned, seemingly brighter than before. Distant drums still carried the night’s celebration. She was still alive.
Her lungs expanded her breath returned-but with it, a sorrow as unnerving as the terror that has preceded it.
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said. “I had to help you understand.”
Tears flooded her eyes and spilled down her face. She reached out for him and dropped to her knees. Grasped his hands and pulled them to her.
There, with her face pressed against his fingers, Feyn wept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE MORNING AFTER PAST GATHERINGS, Roland had woken with pounding in his skull and exhaustion like languor in his limbs as he rolled over to cradle the body next to him, never sure until later whether it was wife, concubine, or other. Such disorientation was synonymous with that celebration to him-the only possible conclusion to the defiant catharsis of the night before. This morning, however, he woke tense, far too clear-headed, and alone.
The thing that had woken him came again: Michael’s unmistakable voice, shouting his name.
He leapt up from the mat where he’d attempted an insomniac’s fitful sleep a scant three hours ago, hurried to the door of his yurt, and squinted into the new morning light.
Michael was running toward him, fully dressed, bow over her shoulder.
“She’s gone.”
She…
It took him a moment to reorient himself and place who “she” might be. Images from the Gathering strung through his mind. The dance, the food, Avra’s heart, Jonathan’s crazed behavior, Feyn…
He looked sharply to the north, the direction of the yurt where they’d kept Feyn under guard. “What do you mean?”
Michael closed the gap between them, slowing to long, urgent strides, panting. “The Dark Blood. She’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Gone. Escaped. With her guard.”
“Which guard? Ours?”
“The putrid Dark Blood she brought with her. I told you it was a mistake from the outset. It was far too dangerous!”
With a curse, he rushed into his yurt, shoved feet into boots, tucked a knife into the waist of his pants, and grabbed his sword and the tunic he had discarded last night. And then he was striding out the yurt and after Michael, who was already running through the sleeping camp toward the horse pen. One of the Nomads he recognized from the late watch was there, hurriedly helping to saddle Michael’s horse as Michael began to saddle his.
“Who was on watch?” Roland demanded, buckling on the sword.
“Narun and Aron,” Michael said. “Aron ran into camp this morning. The Dark Bloods took the horses. Narun is still there.”
Roland pulled the tunic on, pushed the man out of the way, and cinched the saddle girth himself. Then he and Michael were tearing out of the pen, away from camp. North.
Within twenty paces of the two temporary yurts, he could already tell that the unmistakable odor of Dark Blood was gone.
Narun rushed to meet them as they dismounted ten yards from the larger of the two yurts.
“They cut their way out the back. Neither one of us ever heard-”
Roland closed the gap between them with a single stride and slammed his fist into the man’s jaw. Narun reeled back and fell to the dirt, hard. He clawed for purchase and began to rise, but Roland struck again. The guard collapsed to his back and rolled to the side, spitting blood. It streamed from his mouth and nose into a tuft of grass.
“Roland!” Michael hissed.
Roland looked up, hand on the man’s collar, fist drawn back for another blow. He dropped the Nomad back to the earth, kicked a spray of dirt onto the guard’s face, and stepped over him.
Michael stared as he stalked past her, but said nothing.
He flung the door wide and stepped into the yurt. One glance at the precise cut in the thick canvas told the story clearly enough.
He spat to one side.
“We don’t know where she got a blade,” Michael said, stepping in behind him. “We checked them both for weapons when they came. Best guess, she got it somewhere between the Gathering and when Jonathan came to see her.”
“Jonathan came? Here?”
“That’s what they said. To talk to her.”
Could the boy be careless enough to have had a weapon on him? He was losing his senses along with his potency. Even if he did become Sovereign, he’d have to be babysat by the hour. Then again, Jonathan’s ascension was now the farthest thing from the realm of true possibility.
Feyn had escaped to run straight back to Saric. Not only did she have no intention of abdicating any portion of her Sovereignty to Jonathan, she now knew the location of the Seyala Valley and every Mortal living within it.
They could move camp. They could mobilize in hours. But then a far more final option presented itself.
Roland swung around, stepped past Michael and ducked out the door of the yurt.
“We have to call council,” she was saying.
But the council meant delay.
“No council.”
He strode toward his horse, Michael following at his shoulder.
“How long have they been gone?”
“According to Aron, no more than two hours.” She paused. “You’re going to kill her.”
It wasn’t a question.
He swung into his saddle without looking at her. “I will do what should have been done two days ago.”
“Then I’m with you.”
“No. I need you here.”
“Not this time, brother. Let the others make preparation.” She flung herself onto her mount and pulled it around. “This time I see it through.”
He was about to assert his demand but then thought better of it. Eliminating the threat Feyn presented wouldn’t put an end to the larger threat Saric presented to all Mortals. He would become Sovereign in her wake- with twelve thousand Dark Bloods at his command. Saric had to die today as well. How, he did not yet know, but to this end Michael would prove helpful.
“Get word to Seriph. Tell him to keep his silence. Meet me on the south side at the river bend.” He spurred his horse. “Quickly, Michael.”
Rom had slept the sleep of one for whom the world might promise to take a turn for the better.
Feyn had come. She’d seen the appetites of life-true life. Not that fabricated existence that came from the work
