Mortal

“Triphon is not a Nomad!” Rom returned. “He was my friend, who died to save Jonathan. He would not object.”

To the crowd: “Do any oppose?”

No one spoke.

“Then we give him Jonathan’s blood.”

Jordin and the others came around the corner bearing the stiff, blood-caked body of their friend. Carefully, the made their way up the steps, laying him on the topmost one.

Rom looked at the old Keeper and nodded. “Do it.”

With a nod, the Book once again inserted stent into vein; once again opened the valve. Once again Jonathan’s blood flowed into a lifeless body, this one dead three days.

Once again the Keeper stepped back, the jar far lighter in his hands than before. This time there were grumblings of protest when Triphon’s body gave no sign of life after a full ten seconds.

Rom’s heart began to fall.

“Give it more time!” Jordin hissed.

Fifteen seconds passed. Another ten. Roland turned challenging eyes on Rom.

“More time? How long does this blood require to work its magic? An hour? A day? A month? Are we all to die in the waiting?”

Rom opened his mouth to respond, but stopped at gasps from the gathered Mortals. The stares-not at him, but at the step.

Triphon’s body had begun to shake. Cries rang out as his torso suddenly arched up from the stone.

Rom leapt down to the step and grabbed Triphon’s trembling leg to keep him from rolling down the ancient stair. His friend’s mouth snapped wide and he began to scream. The hoarse cry sent those closest below scurrying back-others rushing forward.

And then Triphon’s mouth snapped shut and his body collapsed back onto the step. He lay still.

“Is he still dead?” someone asked.

As if in answer, Triphon sat up, eyes wide.

Silence. But Rom’s heart was pounding as loudly in his chest as Triphon’s surely was in his own.

With a look of bewilderment, his friend turned his head and stared at the crowd. They stared back, aghast.

Triphon dropped his feet to a lower step, stood, and shook his head.

“I’ve just had the strangest dream.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

THE CELEBRATION OF TRIPHON’S RISING filled the valley with wild cries of jubilation and shouts of wonder, and in good form Triphon, learning what had happened, proceeded to give them all full assurance that he was indeed alive. First with raised fists and cries of victory, then with a clumsy dance on the top step.

Encouraged by laughter and jumping children eager for joy in a world otherwise turned to gloom, he danced again and then again, laughing and shouting with them all.

“I’m alive!” he shouted. “I am not dead!”

“He’s alive!” the children cried. “Triphon is not dead!”

Rom watched it all, heart bursting with gratitude. Book kept mumbling his approval between shakes of his head, giving way at last to the grin of a man decades younger. Jordin stood to one side, stoic as was her way, her eyes bright. This was, after all, her Jonathan’s doing. And evidence of his life in Triphon meant only one thing: that Jonathan lived, still.

Triphon’s rising was the first sign of hope the Mortals had seen in three days, and in the wake of so much heartache, most embraced it with astonishment if also with uncertainty.

What did it mean? Why hadn’t Jonathan’s blood brought Philip back to life? Clearly, Jonathan had chosen Triphon as a sign of his blood’s power.

What was that power? Why had the Mortal sense left those who’d taken Jonathan’s resurrected blood?

None of this was lost on the leaders of the Nomads, who watched with open interest at first, some of them shouting along with the children, only to give way to subdued glances as Roland stood his ground.

The prince let them carry on for ten minutes as dozens hurled questions and conjectures without clear answers. Only then did he ascend the first three steps and turn to gather their attention.

Silence settled over the assembled once again. His authority was a thing to behold, Rom thought. Right or wrong, the man had earned his leadership, perhaps more so than he.

“So, we have all seen that Jonathan had great power and for that we will revere him forever. It’s a reason to celebrate. He gave us all life, did he not?”

Voices of agreement rippled through the Mortals.

“He gave us emotion and Mortal perception and with it the unequivocal ability to distinguish life from death.”

“So it is…,” they said.

“And before he died, Jonathan gave us one parting gift to remind us of the power he granted each of us.” His arms swept to Triphon, who stood on the top step, still half naked, streaked with dried blood. “Triphon is that gift!”

Cheers rose in thundering accord.

“While he lived, Jonathan demonstrated his power to command the very skies. I believe Triphon is alive because Jonathan kissed his feet and gave him special blessing. Is this not so?”

No one could deny what stood before them.

Roland continued. “But, the blood did not return life to Philip. Nor will it to any others who lay in their graves. I’m eternally grateful to Jonathan, as Triphon will no doubt be. But we cannot assume the power of his blood any longer. Jonathan himself is dead. His blood died before Saric claimed his life. I daresay Rom has less life now than you or I.”

Anticipation turned to confusion on the faces of nearly a thousand. Voices mumbled questions and objection, uneager for such hopeless speculation.

Roland walked up the remaining steps to the platform and addressed the assembly as one accustomed to undeniable authority.

“Jonathan birthed in all of us the making of a new race, empowered in ways humans could only have dreamed of before. We will live for centuries. We were made to rule this earth. That is Jonathan’s truest and greatest gift. That is his sign.”

He glanced at Rom. “Now come three of our own who have climbed from the crypt insisting they, not we, possess life. Let them prove it. We test their blood. If they still have the powers granted to us by Jonathan, we listen. If they don’t… each one must make their own choice. But know that I will follow no man back into the grave from which I came.”

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small clear vessel, which Rom immediately recognized as belonging to the Keeper, and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. An ounce or two of amber liquid filled the capsule halfway.

And so Roland’s obsession with extended life had already been at work. He would need alchemy to monitor life among his own kind if they parted ways.

The Keeper’s eyes widened. “Where-”

“Is it not true that by dropping only a drop of blood in this elixir of yours, you can estimate by the color it turns how long a man might live?”

“It’s no elixir.”

“That the darker it turns, the longer the life?”

The Keeper mumbled a response filled with the jargon of alchemy.

“Be plain, old man. Is it true or do I lie?”