Corban inclined his head. “And if we find Saric?”
“Then you will kill him on sight and bring his body back to me intact,” Feyn said.
“Yes, my liege.”
It was only a beginning. She would go much further than Saric had ever dreamed.
She moved toward Dominic, laid a hand along the side of his head, cupped his cheek. Did he tremble?
Yes.
“You will be my firstborn. Soon all the world will follow in your footsteps.”
“What is your wish concerning the Mortals?” Corban said.
“We will extinguish them,” she said, her attention fixed on Dominic. “We will wipe their names from history.”
She smiled then, lowered her hand. “Are you ready, Dominic?”
The senate leader lifted his head and silently nodded.
“Corban,” Feyn said.
“Yes?”
“Turn the music off.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
THE SEYELA VALLEY LAY UNDER A CLOUDY SKY, the camp and ruins vacated once again. Roland had taken nearly nine hundred self-professed Immortals north, riding high in his saddle, gaze fixed firmly on his destiny. No amount of persuasive words could alter the man’s interpretation of the days leading up to Jonathan’s death, or his course.
Rom hardly blamed him. Who could argue against the powers of life evidenced in all of those who’d sworn their allegiance to Roland? They possessed acute senses that would facilitate their rise to supremacy over the course of their vastly extended lives. In their eyes, they were nothing less than gods ready to walk the earth.
Even now, as Rom sat upon his horse watching Jordin pay her last respects at Jonathan’s grave, he felt a strange draw to the lure of such a life.
But that life was no longer for him.
The forty-five who’d joined Rom, the Keeper, Jordin, and Triphon would be fortunate to live natural life spans before they were returned to the ground. Beyond that, it was really anyone’s guess. None of them truly understood Bliss. But so few statues of Order made sense any longer-from the code of prescribed behavior abandoned by Rom years ago when he first left Byzantium, to the vengeful Maker such a code was meant to appease.
Jonathan’s obsession had been with love, not punishment.
A total of forty-nine true Mortals now inhabited the earth. Sovereigns. Theirs was a meager beginning to a journey none of them understood well. But they understood now-at last-the One who was the cornerstone of their new life. As a result, who they were and what path they might follow had become clearer over the last few days.
They now understood that they were Makers. Most of their number had been made from Rom’s, Jordin’s, or the Keeper’s blood rather than what remained of Jonathan’s.
They understood that they had given up much of what Roland’s Immortals prized. That Mortals of the Sovereign realm would be misunderstood and despised, a tiny band of vagabonds bent no longer on ruling the world but surviving within it.
They understood the beautiful simplicity that came with certainty, like children who believe long before wrestling with the philosophical or empirical underpinnings of those beliefs. And so they lived with supreme assurance of simple truths. The world was round-why? Because it was. Corpses longed for life-why? Because they did.
Jordin was crying.
He saw it in his mind before tears broke from her eyes. As if it was already happening, though it was not. Not yet.
Rom blinked, taken back by the sudden realization even as Jordin reached out and touched the tall pole she’d erected at the head of Jonathan’s grave. The monument was topped with a leather wrap that simply read:
Jordin lowered her head and let her tears flow.
Rom stared at her, astonished by his precognition. He’d known she would cry, not because he’d anticipated the behavior, but because he had
As much as he knew that she would now say, “I’m so sorry, Jonathan.”
“I’m so sorry, Jonathan,” Jordin said, shaking her head with remorse.
A chill passed down Rom’s neck.
What other powers would they soon discover?
The question brought warmth to his heart despite the display of sorrow before him. Their lives would not be easy. But where there was need in following Jonathan’s way, there would surely be means. That, he also knew.
Triphon led the train of Mortals into view on the plateau’s southern edge. Kaya was with them, as were Adah and Raner. Only twenty were warriors, the rest aged men and women or children. Would skill with sword and bow be needed? Stripped of their acute Mortal senses, how would they survive?
“Jonathan killed Dark Bloods,” Jordin said, setting her jaw without bothering to wipe her tears. “We follow him.”
Rom studied her, wondering if her response was coincidence or if she’d spoken with insight into his thoughts.
“With every breath until the day we die,” he said.
Jordin touched Jonathan’s memorial one last time, eyes lingering on the sign she’d fastened to the top. Then she walked to her horse, swung into the saddle, and drew alongside Rom, facing the approaching caravan. For a moment, neither spoke.
“They will try to snuff us out,” she said.
He offered a single nod. “Sovereigns may not live as long, but neither will they die easily.”
The grave to their right begged to differ, but they both knew that Jonathan still lived, if not as a Mortal who walked the earth.
“I would have you lead them with me, Jordin. As my equal.”
A crow cawed somewhere behind them.
“I’m young,” she said.
“You have a pure heart.”
“I’m too broken to think clearly.”
“You saw the truth before the rest of us.”
“How can I lead if I don’t know where to go?” she said.
“We go south, to the Carena Valley.”
“To do what?”
“To follow Jonathan. Beyond that, none of us knows. Does a colt know what they will do when they first lurch on weak legs still wet from their birthing? You may know before I do. I see in you a great leader.”
She offered no more objections.
“Tell me, Jordin. Was Jonathan triumphant in his death?”
“Supremely,” she said.
“And is the colt glorious when it becomes a stallion?”
She looked at Triphon and the others, now halfway across the plateau.
“I will be that stallion.”
