There on a far hill, buffeted by the accelerating wind sat two riders. One on a pale horse, the other on a dark one. A young man dressed as a Nomad… a woman cloaked in pale gray over regal white whom he would have recognized anywhere.
Jonathan. Feyn.
They had come.
Rom felt the air leave his lungs. For a beat, he forgot that his horse careened toward Roland. He jerked back on the reins and pulled his mount to a rearing halt.
He wasn’t sure if it had been Jonathan or Feyn who’d announced their arrival, but the effect swept through the amassed forces like a wave. The sounds of battle in the valley lost some of its urgency.
To the hill on Rom’s right, Saric had turned on his horse, one arm still raised to his army. But his attention was on the pair. Roland whistled and retreated, joined immediately by the Mortals fighting at his side.
The battle ebbed, eerily so, before falling to a standstill.
Thunder rumbled overhead. The dark sky churned.
The valley was now divided by two wide lines of Saric’s army, one on either side of the ruins, leaving a wide strip of bare ground that led directly up the ruin steps. The Mortals pulled back to the north and south of the Dark Bloods.
Feyn broke first, nudging her horse forward at an easy walk. Jonathan followed slightly behind to her right. Down the hill, then across the river and up the bank toward the temple ruins. A picture of stoic resolve.
Rom’s first thought was filled with relief and jubilation. However unlikely, Jonathan had carved out an agreement with Feyn that would give him power without further bloodshed. And then they would mourn the cost of that already spilled-more than had been let in more than five centuries.
Feyn and Jonathan approached, looking neither to the right or the left. Only when they reached Saric’s hill did they stop.
Jonathan stared at Triphon’s dead body sagging before the ruin steps. Feyn slowly turned her head, looked up at Saric, and held his gaze evenly. The Maker of Dark Bloods finally gave her a short nod then nudged his horse forward. Down the hill, slowly.
Before Saric reached them, Feyn started her mount forward with Jonathan at her side, his eyes never leaving the temple ruins. Saric rode down from the hill and followed.
Only then did it occur to Rom that Saric and Feyn were now in possession of the boy, isolated by an army of Dark Bloods on either side. They were cut off from all Mortals sworn to Jonathan’s defense.
He pulled around, saw that Roland was locked in place, utterly still as others cast furtive glances between him and the procession to the temple. They were awaiting orders.
None came.
“Jonathan!” Rom’s voiced echoed through the valley. “My Sovereign!”
Jonathan neither turned nor raised his hand, even in acknowledgment. Instead, he rode slowly at Feyn’s side, seemingly intent on only one thing: the ruins ahead of him.
Another peal of thunder rumbled across the sky. The wind picked up.
Terror sliced through Rom’s mind.
CHAPTER FORTY
SARIC’S MIND SPUN WITH THE MEANING of Feyn’s sudden arrival, aware all the while that his children’s eyes were fixed on him riding behind her like a leader who had taken second seat to true royalty. Aware that his skin was clammy with sweat. That his heart pounded. Aware that Jonathan’s jaw was set, his eyes fixed, his hips rolling naturally with his mount’s gait, his hands light on the reins as one at ease with his place as supreme ruler of all that life could offer, despite the falsity of that notion.
Aware, too, that the Mortals were cut off from any attempt at saving the boy.
The battle had stalled completely, drawn to the sudden appearance of the pair. His children watched him, waiting for his direction. He left them standing. The battle was now in his hands.
He studied the side of Feyn’s face, the line of her jaw bared by her simple plaits, the pale gray mantle, the pearls sewn at the cuffs of her sleeves. She had fulfilled her promise to bring the boy to him.
And yet, she showed none of the reverence he expected from a loyal servant. The submission that had occupied her very posture before turning full Dark Blood only last evening was gone.
He considered the line of Dark Bloods to his right. They watched him mostly, but some of their eyes had turned to Jonathan.
A chill flashed down his back. He could hardly blame them-the object of their full fury had been delivered into the hands of their Master. But curiosity, not anger, occupied their eyes.
He kicked his horse and trotted up next to Feyn as they approached the steps.
“I was beginning to question your loyalty, my love.”
Her eyes remained steadfast on the dead Mortal hanging before the temple. As did Jonathan’s.
Didn’t she know he could draw his sword and summarily cut her down now, where she sat? For a brief moment he considered showing his supremacy in such a way for all to see. But then, he had no evidence that she’d betrayed him.
“You have done well,” he said quietly. “For this I will reward you.”
She made no effort to acknowledge him.
Had she lost her mind? Did the boy have such power to steal her heart? But no… They were both under his heel, their fates in his hands.
Beside her, Jonathan rode as though alone, seemingly oblivious to the thousands who looked on. He looked strangely majestic in his worn black tunic. Even his mount seemed to be aware of nothing but its rider’s supremacy, as though to say:
A man brimming with more life than Saric could possibly know without taking his blood himself.
No. He was imagining things.
“Is there anything you would say to your Maker?” he demanded of Feyn.
Her horse stopped ten paces from the ruin steps, just beyond Triphon’s lifeless form. Without a glance at Saric she dismounted, walked around to Jonathan, and offered him a hand.
Jonathan took her hand, gave Triphon’s body a last look, and dismounted. She led him to the steps, lifted his fingers, and lightly kissed his knuckles. Gave him a parting look. Only then did she turn to face Saric.
“I give you your Sovereign, my Lord. My debt is repaid.”
Without another word, Feyn crossed to her mount, swung into the saddle, reined her horse around, and rode directly toward the line of Dark Bloods at the valley mouth. They parted like a black sea as she approached, wind gusting through their corridor.
He could have stopped her, but she had played her role. If her loyalty to him had been undermined, he would deal with her easily enough later-she commanded no army. No force could offer her protection.
Feyn rode through his ranks, past the Mortals beyond, and headed out of the valley at a full run.
When Saric turned back to the temple ruins, Jonathan had already climbed the steps. He stood, looking out at Dark Blood and Mortal alike. His feet were parted and firmly planted, young jaw tight, his hands clenched in fists by his side as gusts tore at his clothing and hair.
So then, nine years had finally brought them to a place of righting the past, of all that had gone wrong. Their roles, this time, were reversed. Today it was Jonathan’s turn to surrender.
The word swept through Saric’s mind as if carried by the raging wind.
“Jonathan!” Rom Sebastian’s voice carried over the lines, stretched thin by desperation. “Jonathan!”
Saric was about to dismount when the boy’s voice cut through the rising storm, drawing the ear of every breathing soul in the valley.
