“How so?”
“He has insisted that he and I meet alone tomorrow, the day he comes of age.”
“Nonsense!” Rom scoffed. “Jonathan will be placed in no danger under any circumstances.”
“Then take that up with him. I will go into seclusion. The rest will be up to you.”
They stood in silence for long moments. Nearby, one of the horses snorted then dipped its head to chew at a tuft of grass, oblivious to the critical decision at hand in the wash.
“It may be the only way to bring Jonathan to power,” Rom said. “The question becomes: what are we willing to risk to bring about his kingdom?”
“We are here to save the life he’s already given us,” Roland said. “That is the kingdom.”
Not entirely true, but Rom wasn’t about to argue.
“Either way. Saric and his army present the greatest threat to all Mortals. We would risk only our fighting force. The others would be gone.”
“Don’t discount the risk.”
“I’m not, but neither am I discounting the potential gain.” Rom frowned. “You’re the tactician. The Keepers will support your decision. Make it now.”
Roland mirrored Rom’s frown. He glanced once at Michael, her silence her unspoken endorsement.
The Nomad faced Feyn, jaw set. “Tomorrow. See that he brings them all.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SARIC SAT AT THE END OF THE EBONY TABLE, silver fork inverted in his left hand, knife in his right slicing through the salted venison steak like a surgeon, aware of the deliberate precision he applied to his task. The rare meat parted under the sharp blade, blood seeped from clean-cut fibers. He set the knife down, lifted his fork, placed the cubed morsel between his front teeth and pulled it free of the prongs. Warm juices flooded his mouth as he bit into the flesh.
The taste filled him with a sense of contentment-comfort despite the concern, however minor, that had gnawed at him since Feyn’s departure.
According to the scouts, she’d arrived safely, spent only an hour in the valley, and then been taken by the Mortals. His men had lost them in the canyons. He’d expected nothing less-Nomads were well known for their ability to cover their tracks and remain in hiding.
For two days no further word had come, and Saric had courted the possibility that she’d been killed. If so, he would simply step into her vacated seat. Her loss would be disappointing, but minor; her only true value to him was in the serving of his whims and any part she might play in flushing the Mortals out of hiding-both roles that could be played by others in time.
Still, he’d been pestered by concern. If the Mortals had a way to turn her blood and mind both, she might double-cross him. Feyn was subservient-that much she had demonstrated to his satisfaction. But his sister was a strong woman, intelligent and calculating to the bone. Could those same traits enable her to break free of his control?
No.
Just as he finished dinner, word came: Feyn had returned. Anxiety slipped from his shoulders like a silken robe. He immediately ordered Corban to see that she was properly bathed, powdered and dressed in white before joining him at his table. She would need to feed on more than food tonight.
Two hours later the room was lit by candles-twenty-four of them in six candelabras, three on each wall adjacent to the table. Classical strings from the age of Chaos filled the room with haunting notes. A composer named Mozart. A requiem for the dead. But in Saric’s mind, the requiem was for death itself.
He glanced at the grandfather clock on the far wall. One minute to eight. He would soon learn what gift Feyn had brought him. She would not disappoint, he was quite sure. His mind turned to Jonathan.
The political power the boy might attempt to flex was of no concern. Nor was the threat from the Mortals who might defend him. Both were inconveniences that would be crushed soon enough.
The power of the boy’s blood, however, was a different matter. However advanced Corban’s alchemy had become, he could no longer deny the possibility that the life offered by Jonathan’s blood was more powerful and therefore more rewarding than his own.
The thought tightened his gut into a knot as two opposing obsessions raged within him: the need to embrace the greatest life in its truest form, and the need to rule over that life as the only Maker.
If he crushed Jonathan and his Mortals, no threat to his supremacy would remain. But in doing so he would also effectively remove the possibility of tasting that same life himself.
Did the Mortals feel more than he did when they tasted life’s pleasures? Was their ability to love and hate greater than his own? Were they driven by more ambition than any he had known?
It shouldn’t matter, so long as his own power was unsurpassed. And yet it did matter. His desire for more inflamed him. Weakened him.
He had to annihilate the Mortals and Jonathan with them. There could be only one Maker.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Come.”
The door swung in and Feyn stepped into the room, alone. Her hair was drawn back into two thick braids. She wore the white dress he’d instructed Corban to give her. She was a vision with dark eyes that spoke of silent submission.
He returned her stare for several long moments, waiting for her to speak out of turn. She did not.
“You look beautiful, sister.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
He nodded toward the chair at the far end of the table. “Please sit.”
Her long dress flowed gracefully around her legs as she crossed to the table and sat. Fresh venison, vegetables, and a pristine place setting waited her. Saric came to lean over her, to cut a thick slice of venison onto her plate.
“In honor of your return I will serve you tonight, my love. Does this please you?”
“If it pleases you, my Lord.”
He lifted his eyes as he set the knife down. “Would I serve you if it did not please me?”
“No, my Lord.”
“No.”
He stood, carried the plate to her seat and placed the portion between the utensils before her.
“I imagine you’re famished.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“For more than meat.”
Her eyes lifted to meet his. “Yes.”
“Eat,” he said. “Finish all of it.”
Without waiting further instruction, Feyn picked up the silverware and cut into the meat.
She ate in silence for several minutes, Feyn with eyes downcast, only looking up at him on occasion and then only briefly, as he’d taught her. She was beautiful.
Saric leaned back in the seat where he had taken his dinner earlier, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers interlaced.
“You earned their trust as I instructed?”
She swallowed her last bite. “Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“Rom Sebastian, not the Nomad, came for me. He spoke of life and the boy and begged me to usher Mortals into power under my authority.”
“I expected nothing less. You agreed?”
“Eventually, yes. I thought it best they see my resistance before I offered any interest in their cause.”
“Good. They took you to their camp?”
