“Because of you.”
His smile softened and he glanced down. Only then did Jordin find the words she longed to speak.
“I love you too, Jonathan. I’ve always loved you, more than you know.”
His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “You know that Sovereigns don’t marry…”
Despite her attempts to hold them back, tears filled her eyes. She nodded.
“Don’t cry, Jordin.” He lifted his other hand, brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “If I could marry, I would choose you. It won’t matter; I choose you now. When I become Sovereign, you will see.”
She couldn’t help the tears slipping down her face. She didn’t quite know why she was crying… She’d never allowed herself to expect such beautiful words from him. The fact that he as Sovereign could not marry was beside the point.
He loved her. He’d chosen her.
“You must also know that the days ahead will be filled with danger. Intentions may be misinterpreted. The dead will rise, but the cost will be heavy.”
“When have we not faced terrible challenges?”
They would be together. Somehow. Though she knew he faced far greater challenges than any to date, she would be by his side. She would bear them all, with the courage of that knowledge. He loved her. He chose her.
“They pale compared to what’s ahead.” He paused, face taut with concern, then lifted her hand and kissed her fingers again. “When the darkest hours come, I want you to know that I’ve known what divides the heart for a long time, but not until recently have I fully understood my calling. The Dark Bloods won’t rest as long as I’m alive.”
“As long as I live, no Dark Blood will touch you.”
Jonathan smiled. “My beautiful Jordin. I would place my life in your hands over any other. Without question.”
“They won’t fail you.”
“No.” But his gaze shifted, like the sky clouding before a storm. “But before you can join me, I have to do what I came to do with Feyn. Sovereigns have their duty. But you must never think I’ve abandoned you. I will build a new kingdom as Sovereign, that I can promise you. Not everything is known-Mortals may turn against me. But you, Jordin…”
Emotion choked off his words, but he pressed on. “Promise you’ll never leave me.”
“I would never leave you! I will go with you!”
“No matter what happens, don’t leave me,” he said. “I can’t bear the thought of being without you.”
“I won’t! Please, Jonathan, don’t speak like this…”
“Promise you’ll follow me, even if the others doubt and turn away. Promise that you will follow me.”
“I will always follow you, Jonathan.” And she knew, as she had known for years, that she would pour herself out for him as surely as he had for so many, and for so many others to yet come.
“I would give my life for you,” she said.
He offered her a quiet smile and a single nod. “And I for you.”
He leaned forward and kissed her gently on her lips. “I for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ROLAND GAZED AT THE AMASSED SEA OF DARK BLOODS, acutely aware of many things at once: The oppressive stench of deeper death wafting across the plateau; the unwavering position of Saric at the front of his horde; the precise location of his archers in trenches along the western side where they awaited his signal; the years of training that every warrior under his command had endured readying for this very day; the battle plan he would execute in four critical stages; the ultimate trap designed to deliver the final blow to the army staring him down right now.
But one thought prevailed above all the others: The fate of all Nomads, those people who had clung tenaciously to freedom over so many centuries, would be decided today in a battle that, no matter how long awaited, could not be won. For all practical purposes, this ground now belonged to Saric.
The Dark Blood had succinctly made his point when his men had planted the pole bearing Triphon in the ground before the temple ruins. A runner had brought them the news: Triphon was alive.
Rom had gone into a frenzy, shouting for his horse. Roland had forcibly pulled him back.
“I have to go get him!”
“Don’t you see? That’s exactly what Saric wants!”
“This is Triphon we’re talking about!” But then he spun away, fists clenched into white-knuckled balls. Rom was no fool; he knew there was no rescuing Triphon.
Words of assurance that Rom could not be blamed failed to calm him-or to assuage the tension in Roland’s own gut. But it was true: taking the time to recover Triphon’s body where he’d fallen at the Authority of Passing would have likely resulted only in more deaths-including Jonathan’s.
In the end the two of them had ridden to the edge of the bluff, there to look down helplessly at the man Roland, too, had regarded as nearly a brother.
Roland’s stomach had tightened to a knot when the Dark Blood shoved his blade under Triphon’s rib cage and ended his life. Rom was beside himself, tearing at his hair. Roland’s own emotion had been for the loss of a friend and those Triphon left behind, but as much for the staggering odds that they faced today. Surely, this was Saric’s intent.
The Dark Bloods were too many. Too savage. Too powerful. Perfectly resolute. When the beast that was Saric’s army moved, it would deny its size and strike like an adder with both wicked speed and venom.
Then again, if Saric had claimed the valley with Triphon’s dead body on a pole, Mortals claimed this battlefield with the Dark Blood’s head dangling from that rope.
Above, the sky had filled with dark-edged clouds full with the promise of an oncoming storm. A heavy rain might compromise their battle plan-particularly the fire they would need in the canyons. To think that after years of preparation for such a day nature itself might defeat them…
A chill prickled his skin.
His declaration that their seven hundred could defeat this swarm of twelve thousand had evoked bold cheers among the ranks of the Nomads just hours ago, and shouts and for final death to any who oppressed life among the living. Children had been kissed and embraced with promises of beauty to come before being sent away. Swords had been sharpened and arrows notched. Someone had told a story of a shepherd boy killing a giant with a single stone and a slingshot, a tale survived from times more ancient than even the Age of Chaos. And they had prepared, believing-knowing-that victory, if not assured, was at least possible.
But now as he stared down Saric’s black dragon of an army, Roland wondered if he’d made a dreadful mistake. If he had overestimated his own tactical advantage. Superior Mortal perception gave them a decided edge over the Dark Bloods’ brute strength and speed, he’d said. And the tenacious instinct for survival within their Nomadic veins would see to it that history recorded the day Roland’s seven hundred Mortals crushed Saric’s twelve thousand Dark Bloods.
They had shouted to the heavens at that.
But now the reality of a vastly larger force stood before him prepared to prove him a fool, and all the bravado and words in the world would not add even one man to his number.
He could still turn his horse back and give the signal for retreat. They would ride north four miles, descend into the canyons along a narrow trail cut months earlier, and quickly disappear into four gorges to emerge three miles farther north, there to regroup in the Valley of Bones.
He could. And yet destiny would not allow him to retreat as his ancestors had.
Rom had informed him that Jonathan had retreated to the old outpost five miles northwest for a summit of Sovereigns. As far as Roland was concerned, they could talk all they liked; ruling power would be decided here on this field, between Saric, Maker of Dark Bloods, and himself, the Leader of the Immortals, as some of the zealots had come to call themselves of late. Political power would succumb to the raw power of life, something Jonathan no longer possessed.
