power was his destiny.
Jonathan took Rom by his shoulders, embraced him.
“No matter what happens today… what you have done will never be forgotten, Rom. When death comes, you will find life. The dead will rise and live under my reign, mark my words.”
“I have no doubts, my Sovereign.”
Jonathan released him and laid his hand on Rom’s shoulder. “Good. Then you will find it easier to hear that I won’t be going with the others as you ask.”
Alarm spiked his gut. “No, you must. For your own protection.”
“No,” Jonathan said, turning. “I would be closer so that I can join and claim my Sovereignty without delay. Jordin will come with me.”
“I won’t have you fighting!”
“I won’t fight, but I will stay near. I’ll go to the old outpost at Corvus Point. It’s isolated and safe. Have no fear, Rom. I’ve decided.” He gave a slight, enigmatic smile. “Isn’t that the prerogative of being Sovereign-to make ones own decisions?”
Corvus Point was roughly five miles west, but there was no telling what might happen in battle. And Dark Blood scouts would be scouring the region.
As though having read his mind, Jonathan said, “It’s too far for their scouts to wander. We’ll be safe. Jordin and I are adept at escaping stray threats.”
Rom suddenly recalled their negotiation with Feyn the previous day. She’d said Jonathan suggested they meet alone on the day of his succession to sort out the matter of rulership-a detail he’d forgotten in the crisis until now.
Jonathan had planned on this all along.
“And Feyn?”
Jonathan gave a slight, acquiescing nod. “I asked her to meet me there. Warriors will wage war, but the matter of Sovereignty has its own demands.”
He no longer sounded like the boy of just days ago. Even so, panic sliced through him and he grabbed him by the shoulder. “Then I go with you. I won’t leave you unprotected. We’ll take ten of our best-”
“No, Rom. You have a battle to fight. I will take Jordin.”
“She’s only one! No. The stakes are too high!”
“
The boy’s tone could hardly be more forceful. Rom released his shoulder, taken aback.
Jonathan said, more gently now: “Today I come of age. Let me lead as I must, and you as you must. Our people need to see you in battle.”
“Roland leads this battle.”
“Roland leads the hearts of many. But you lead others. And so Jordin comes with me alone. We will meet Feyn. Before the day is out, we will return with an agreement that will allow me to take the seat of power I was born to occupy. Saric will be defeated and I will be Sovereign. Let me take the path to my rightful place.”
Was it possible?
But Saric would still come. Regardless of Jonathan’s negotiations or even agreement with Feyn, Saric held her in thrall, poised to ascend to power in her place. He had to be defeated.
He started to object again, but Jonathan cut him short. The boy had indeed become a man nearly overnight. Gone was the crazed Sovereign to-be who’d danced covered in blood at the Gathering. Here stood a young leader demanding to be obeyed.
There was hope yet.
Rom looked at Jordin. Her chin was a notch higher than normal. Pride. Satisfaction. She’d been chosen by Jonathan-nothing could mean more to her.
“Don’t let him out of your sight,” Rom said, leveling his gaze.
“I have no intention of removing my eyes from him.”
“If he even stubs his toe, I will hold you personally responsible.”
“He will not lose a single hair under my watch.”
“Keep an eye out for any disturbance. If you’re confronted, don’t fight. Run.”
“Faster than a gazelle.”
“Enough,” Jonathan said. “Am I a fragile egg?”
“No. You’re a Sovereign-far more precious to this world than any egg.”
Jonathan’s expression softened. “As are you, Rom. Jordin would give her life to save me, I have no doubt of that. And I would give my life to save either of you.”
He clasped Rom’s shoulder one last time. “Be safe, my friend. We will meet soon in victory.”
“If Feyn comes, watch her like a hawk,” Rom said. To Jordin: “Don’t trust her. If Saric dies and she survives-”
“Then Feyn and I will both rule,” Jonathan said, walking back to his horse, Jordin at his heels. He swung into his saddle, and a second later Jordin followed suit. “Put your doubts aside, Rom. Don’t forget what I’ve said.”
With that he pulled his mount around and spurred it west.
Toward Corvus Point.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
FIVE MILES SOUTH OF THE SEYALA VALLEY, the scales of a vast serpent twined along the Andros Plain. Twelve thousand strong. Two thousand cavalry. Ten thousand heavy infantry.
Two standard-bearers carried red flags that rose like two crimson eyes set in the head of the winding army. One standard bore the compass of Order, which was the insignia of the world and of the Sovereign, transposed from its former white background to the crimson of Saric’s new World Order. The other bore the scaled phoenix-a winged and serpentine creature, an evolved version of the firebird-a symbol of reborn life once revered by the alchemists of ancient Chaos.
The army was twice the size of the legions in the history books of Chaos. Appropriate, because it was comprised of those who were doubly alive, each of them beautiful works not only of alchemy, but of their Maker.
The vanguard’s two thousand cavalry rode black stallions so eerily uniform that one might think they had all sprung from the same bloodline or even the same genetic code.
Which they had.
The cavalry carried spear, sword, and smaller round shields. They rode in black saddles skirted in leather armor to protect the horses’ flanks-at first glance one might not know where man ended and horse began. Their black helmets reflected no light from the sporadic sun.
The ten thousand on foot wore the black leather armor of their leader, the polished sheen dulled by the dust of eight hours’ march. It covered the toe and heel of boot to midthigh, giving each man the appearance of having sprung up out of the earth like a dark specter.
They carried spears with iron heads. Short, straight swords rode their left hips. Rectangular shields were slung across their backs like giant, obsidian scales. The weapons of a former age had been remade-reborn-in factories deep to the south of the peninsula, first under the orders of Pravus, and most recently under Saric.
They marched twenty columns wide, with five on either side of the supply train in the middle. Their formation was perfect. Mathematically precise and alive.
The ground shook beneath their feet like the beat of a new heart, the anthem of a new, living age.
At the head of the vanguard between Brack and Varus, Saric closed his eyes. The cavalry’s rattling tack was its own kind of song. Primal. Beautiful. Like the violins of Chaos-refined beyond mere sound.
Only one being could threaten the harmony of his new era.
The boy. Jonathan.
His stomach clenched, as much with anticipation as with outrage. There were two things he could not abide. One was any threat to the supremacy of the life in his veins. The other was his own need to discover and consume
