Mortal

The Book hesitated, the set of his mouth grim before he said, “In general terms, however inexact of a science, yes.”

“Good.”

Without ceremony, Roland pulled out his knife and cut his thumb. He opened the vessel, tossed the cork down the steps, held the amber liquid out for all to see, and squeezed two drops of his blood into the liquid.

The red drops sank to the bottom leaving bloody trails. As they watched, the amber fluid quickly turned dark.

“Black,” Roland said, showing the crowd. “The Keeper says we might live as long as a thousand years with the blood in our veins. Here, then, is proof.”

Rom heard it all with only a little apprehension. Regardless of this test, knowledge lived in him like a breathing being. Light had blossomed in his mind like a white-hot sun. How he would show that light or to what end, he didn’t yet know, but he knew.

Yet Roland would have his day. The prince withdrew a second, identical vessel from his jacket, uncorked it, and approached Rom.

“Show us.”

Rom stared into the prince’s eyes and knew with certainty that the man’s mind was set, regardless of the test’s outcome. He offered Roland a conciliatory nod and held out his hand for the knife.

Without pause, Rom nicked his own thumb. He squeezed two drops of blood into the vessel.

The blood slowly sank to the bottom. Settled to form a thin layer of red. They waited for the change.

None came. The liquid remained amber except for a thin cloud of red blood that rose from the bottom.

Roland turned to the Keeper. “Does this look like the blood of a Mortal?”

The Keeper’s only response was the sudden pallor of his expression.

“No,” Roland said. He dropped the vessel on the stone, where it shattered. “I didn’t think so. You, old man, will live only a handful of years if you’re lucky.”

“It means nothing!” Jordin cried.

“No? Then we test each of you.”

In short order, Roland produced another vessel and applied the same test to Jordin. Again the liquid refused to darken.

Roland held it up to show them all. “She will live only a natural life span, if that.” He summarily dropped the vial and let it break on the stone.

He repeated the exercise with the Book and then with Triphon. Both with the same result.

Last of all, he tested Seriph. This time the amber liquid turned dark.

Roland held up the dark vessel. “Life!” he cried.

“This means nothing!” Jordin snapped. “We are alive! Mortal.”

“Perhaps you are.” Roland handed the darkened vessel to Seriph and faced the crowd. “But today is a new day.”

Roland lifted his voice again.

“Today, I no longer call myself Mortal! Whether Keeper or Nomad, this day I call all who celebrate life and vow to protect it: Immortal!”

The word echoed through the valley.

Immortal.

So. Roland would have his new race.

“All who would follow me, we leave today! We go north, where we will rebuild and claim what is ours. We who are Immortal will inherit the earth, by might and by sword and by any means required!”

He glanced at Rom.

“As for those who would follow these three, I will say what Jonathan himself said before he left us: Let the dead bury the dead.”

With that, Roland walked down the steps, strode past the leading edge of the crowd, swung into his saddle, and delivered his final charge for all to hear.

“Chose your destiny today!” he cried. “Immortality…”

He leveled a pointed finger toward Rom.

“… or death!”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

THE FORTRESS SPRAWLED along the edge of the forest, her turrets sunk deep into the earth like the talons of a steel-footed throne.

From here among the twisted pines, one might monitor the hills of Byzantium, the world capital, twenty miles away. Might gaze at the roiling sky and devour its ominous poetry-might shun the diffused light of the sun.

The thin strain of violins filled the master chamber, pumped in through the vents like air. They lingered like shadows in Saric’s private chamber, now bared of the gold silks that had recently hung in the corners.

A knock at the door.

“Come.”

Corban entered and sank to a knee. A second figure stepped in behind the Master Alchemist and followed suit. A simple Corpse, as they were called.

“My liege.” Corban’s head was bowed, his long hair unbound over his shoulder.

Behind the ebony desk, Feyn Cerelia, Sovereign of the world, laid down her silver knife beside an unfinished meal. The glow of the tabletop candelabra glinted off the ring of Office on her hand.

So much had changed.

Eighteen. It was the number of days since she had woken to new life at the hands of her Master, Saric.

Seventeen. It was the number of days since she had first realized that love was born of loyalty. Maker to creation. Master to servant. In it, she had found a measure of peace. She was more than a thing reborn. She was a thing perfected.

Eleven. It was the number of days since she’d realized that she was a creature destined for more power than her Maker and succumbed to the demands of her own destiny.

Saric’s downfall had been his own arrogance, of course. She, not he, had been made the superior vessel, having been trained for Sovereignty her entire life. She, not he, was the greater ruler, and now mastered the Dark Blood with more power and authority than he ever had.

This was her destiny, not Saric’s.

Nine. It was the number of days since Saric had disappeared into the wasteland beyond the Seyala Valley, after losing the men she had dispatched to follow him.

“Rise.”

Corban stood, stepped aside, and nodded at the leader of the senate, who was trembling with palpable fear.

“Hello, Dominic,” Feyn said.

“My Lady,” he said, head bowed, eyes fixed somewhere on the lion rug before him.

Feyn pushed the carved chair back and rose. To Corban: “Have you found my brother?”

“No, liege,” the alchemist said. “I’ve dispatched four hundred to search him out, but there is no sign of him.”

She slid her gaze along the table, past the glow of the candelabra to the empty glass sarcophagus.

“Keep looking.”

Feyn glided around the table, the hem of her red velvet gown trailing along the floor behind her. The beads on her sleeve caught the dim light, throwing fire against the walls.

Behind him, Dominic looked up as though searching for the source of the violins, his eyes stark at what could only be the realization that it was not the staid music of Order, but something far more emotive and ancient.

“By week’s end, I want the appropriate traces of my blood in every Dark Blood. Like you, their allegiance will be to me alone.”