does become Sovereign. We should at least consider the option now, while we have it.”
“What? Ride into Byzantium and take the Citadel by force?”
Roland shrugged. “Whatever is required to ensure Jonathan’s ascension.”
“We will not bathe his rise to power in blood unless our hand is forced,” Rom said.
“No, of course not,” Roland said with a slight dip of his head. Ever the warrior, ever the statesman. “In the meantime, I expect that we kill this Dark Blood.”
Rom considered him, then glanced at each of the council members in turn, landing, at last, on his truest friend.
“Triphon,” he said. “Find Jonathan. He’s our Sovereign. Let him decide.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE CITADEL. Heart of Byzantium. Throne room of the Sovereign. Seat of world power.
Place of whispers. Place of secrets.
A day had passed since Saric’s world had changed once more. Now he strode into the outer foyer of the senate chamber, footsteps on the marble floor echoing through the hall’s vaulted ceiling. He was only vaguely aware of the two Citadel guards flanking him on either side, cowering in his wake.
He breathed deep.
It all rushed back in an instant: the Chaos of these ancient chambers. It seeped from her very stones like sweat from her subterranean walls. It flitted through her hallways like the ghosts of a former age, whispering songs of passion. Anger. Love.
Power.
Did those sitting within the Senate Hall have any idea how very wrong they were? How weak and flawed was the foundation on which they’d built their staid and stoic laws?
No.
Today they would learn. Today he would teach them.
He smoothed the dark sleeve of his robe and angled toward the great doors leading into the senate chamber. He had owned many fine robes in his life before, but none of them could equal the one he wore now, glittering with faceted onyx and garnet at neck and cuff, snug across shoulders that had emerged from the years of his metamorphosis more broad and muscled than before. Corban himself had drawn back his hair, wrapping it in a length of the finest silk he owned. An adoring tribute to his maker, one Saric had accepted with full love in the face of such worship.
Two guards stood at the twin doors as he approached. One of them paled, the color in his face replaced by recognition. As it should be-Saric was a veritable ghost come back from the dead. A reaper come to take what was his.
“My Lord,” the one whispered, drifting aside.
The other one glanced sharply at his partner, but stood his ground, the ceremonial pike at his side not wavering once.
“Senate is in session,” he said. “Entrance is not permitted.”
Saric slowly closed the distance between them until, an arm’s reach away, he towered a full head over him. The man’s eyes darted to the two guards behind Saric and then back to Saric and down his neck, where the inky line of his veins disappeared beneath his neckline.
“Do you know who I am?” Saric said.
“No.” His hand trembled once on the pike.
“Then it’s time you do.”
Saric leaned in, as though to whisper between them.
The guard’s eyes darted up and after a moment’s hesitation, he tilted his head toward him. Saric lifted his long, pale fingers to the man’s head and drew him close, so that his lips touched the man’s ear.
“You may call me death,” he whispered.
He twisted the guard’s head. A sick pop, half of a gasp… and then silence.
The young man slumped to the marble floor as his spike clattered beside him.
The guard on the other side of the door took one more step back and then stood frozen, ghostly white.
Without a word, Saric stepped past him, black hem of his robe sliding over the dead man’s boot. And then he laid his hands against the heavy double doors, pushed them slowly wide, and stepped into the great senate chamber.
The hall had not changed in nine years. Very little did among the dead. The great torch burned above the dais, constantly fed by a supply of gas-the flame of Order, gathered from all corners of the world, never to be extinguished. Its smoke had all but obscured the ancient painting on the ceiling, blacking it out.
A debate was in progress-about what, Saric did not care. None of their paltry concerns now mattered. Only he did.
The cacophony of voices began to die as those sitting nearest the door of the chamber theater reacted to the sight of him standing in the open maw of the great doorway. Swiveling necks. Gasps, sibilant as prayer to his ears. One or two of the senators half-rose from their seats, papers falling from their laps.
Saric released the doors and walked down the great center aisle, through the middle of the tiered seats, not seeing so much as sensing the hundred gaping faces on either side of him. He took in the astonished silence as one does the sun, or the power of a coming storm. In the back of the chamber, the heavy doors fell closed with a dull and hollow thud.
There, on the rounded platform protruding into the chamber, was Rowan, the Sovereign Regent. For the first time in his life, Saric regarded the man he had known so long ago with new curiosity.
The dark-skinned man who had once served Saric’s father as senate leader was as seemingly unchanged as Order itself. He wore the same dark robes as before, his hair bound back in the same manner Saric so vividly remembered. Only the slightest streak of gray in his hair and scant lines beneath his eyes betrayed his aging. Otherwise, he was exactly as he had been. Saric found this disappointing.
The Regent stood near a marble table, the Sovereign’s seat neatly tucked behind it, signifying the symbolic presence of the rightful Sovereign, not yet of age. On the other side of the table sat another man with gray hair, his nose hawklike, hands grasping the arms of his chair, eyes fastened on Saric. This then, must be Dominic, the new senate leader.
“Order!” Rowan said, reaching for the gavel, pounding it twice on the thick travertine. The old fool hadn’t yet recognized him. “What is the meaning of this interrupt-”
And then Saric saw the recognition in his eyes, the collision of the impossible and inexplicable at once. The way his eyes coursed over him, lingering at his changed frame, returning to his too-pale face.
The gavel slipped from his fingers and came to rest on the table. Rowan staggered back a step.
Saric slowly mounted the steps to the platform. Crossed to the table, not once removing his gaze from the man.
“Saric… We thought you dead…”
Behind Saric, the theater was utterly still.
“Please sit.”
The Regent glanced at Dominic then toward the greater senate chamber. He dipped his head slightly and returned to his seat. He sat as one not sure of his own movement.
Saric lifted the gavel, tapped it once against his palm, and turned to face the senate theater. One hundred senators stared at him with varied expressions of confusion. Little did they know just how appropriate that sentiment would soon be.
“Esteemed senators. I have returned to you. I, Saric, who was once your Sovereign.”
Murmurs from those in the chamber.
“I have been gone from you for many years. Perhaps you, like your Regent, thought me… dead.” He paused, allowing himself the barest smile. “As you can see, I am very much alive.”
He faced the senate leader, seated to the left. “Dominic, I assume?”
