by Ted Dekker
A corridor he remembered from one surreal night when he had abducted Feyn herself. A lifetime ago.
If he had done it before, he could do it again.
“Where will this take us?” Roland said.
“To the Sovereign’s chamber.”
“You know the way to the Sovereign’s chamber?” the Nomad said in a strange tone. “I should have known.”
Rom didn’t respond.
It took them another fifteen minutes to reach the hidden passage that led into Feyn’s chambers.
He led them down the corridor, his free hand held up for silence, and then to the top of a narrow flight of darkened stairs. Faint light seeped past the edge of a heavy velvet curtain below. He signaled them to extinguish their torches and wait.
The scent of Corpse was unmistakable. With it, burning candles. The lingering scent of a meal—meat. Wine.
And a deeper odor.
Dark Bloods.
Rom’s pulse quickened. He padded down the stairs and eased aside the edge of the curtain.
Faint glow of candlelight throughout the dimly lit chamber. Faint strain of… violin? The meal was gone; the smell came from the front room, adjacent to her bedchamber here.
The smell of Corpse was stronger. Of Dark Blood.
Saric had to be nearby.
A figure near the expansive window. A woman, in a gown of blue velvet, a diamond clasp in her hair. She sat at a desk piled high with newspapers.
Feyn?
He willed his breath to calm, slipped past the curtain with only a whisper of a rustle, glanced to his left, toward the dressing area, and once up at the ceiling, noting the faint mismatched edge of plaster where it had been repaired.
His heart was hammering, too loud.
He took several steps to the middle of the chamber and stopped.
“Feyn.”
The woman at the desk paused, newspaper in hand. She lowered the paper, very slowly, and then turned in her chair.
It was Feyn, and she was alive.
It came back to him then, all at once: the day he had taken her out of the city, the way she had come to life when he had given her the blood. The ways she had laughed, and then kissed him. Had asked him to run away with her.
How different it all might have been then. But there had been Jonathan.
And Avra…
His last sight of Feyn had been on the day of her inauguration. She had fallen to her knees, arms out, a terrified scream coming from those lips so beautifully set together now. Her blood had spilled to the platform as she had crumpled, sliced open by the Keeper’s sword…
A horrible image that had haunted his sleep for years.
Now, with the light of the candelabra illuminating her hair like a halo, he felt his breathing still. He’d forgotten just how regal, and absolutely beautiful, she was.
“It’s Rom,” he said, when she said nothing.
She was the picture of composure, her hands folded in her lap. Blue gemstones dangled from her earlobes.
“Rom,” she said.
He took two steps and stopped, staring. She wasn’t rising. Or hurrying to meet him. Or crying out how Saric had taken her. He had expected anything but this calm self-possession. But of course he should have known. She was a Corpse again, schooled to carry herself as one without fear, no matter how acutely she felt it…
“It’s true then,” he said. “Saric took you.”
Nothing.
“How?”
She rose from her chair.
“Once again you invade my chambers, Rom Sebastian. History repeats itself, after all.”
She folded her hands, placing her left hand over her right. There was no mistaking the heavy ring of office on her finger. Sovereign.
He’d come expecting nothing less, but seeing it so vividly confirmed…
Nine years flashed before his eyes. The lives of Avra. Of his mother. His father. The old first Keeper he had met.
Every memory now at her mercy.
He strode to her, half-expecting her to take a startled step back. But she didn’t. Instead, she allowed him to drop to one knee and take her hand.
Rom had been so distracted by the sight of her alive that he’d pushed aside the scents in the room, but now so close to her they registered again, demanding to be noted.
Dark Blood. Heavy as tar in his nostrils.
He looked up at her eyes. Black.
For a moment he froze. Now he saw the black sprawl of vein up her cheek.
Her gaze held no fear. She seemed to be taking him in, as though his sudden proximity had ignited strange fascination. Memory, perhaps—a tumult of emotions passing through those eyes like a confused mosaic.
“Feyn,” Rom said, pushing down his panic. “We’ll find a way to fix this. Where’s Saric now?”
Her gaze flicked to his left, over his shoulder. Rom spun around, expecting to see Saric himself. Instead he found himself staring at Jonathan and Roland. Their hoods were off, their scarves pulled down from their faces.
“Who is this?” Feyn said. But something in her tone told him she already knew.
Rom stepped to the side.
“This is Jonathan. The boy you gave your life for.” He fell silent as the two considered one another in the dimly lit chamber.
“Jonathan…,” Feyn said faintly.
“Yes.”
She glanced at Rom and then walked past him, stopping just short of Jonathan who continued to take her in without a word.
“I remember you,” she said. “The boy on the horse. Coming to take the seat I gave up. And now here we are. What are we to do? Two Sovereigns. But only one now.” Her gaze left his eyes to trail over his braids. She reached out, took several of them between her fingers, thumb brushing over them thoughtfully. They were all tied with black cords for skill in the games and adorned with feathers—gifts from children.
“I remember you as well,” he said softly.
“They said you were crippled.”
“I was. But my leg healed.”
“It’s his blood,” Rom said. “Like the blood you tasted once, but much more. We’ve all taken it. We see differently now. We feel emotion, but we sense in ways that we never did before. There are many of us now. We call ourselves Mortals.”
“Indeed?”
“You died for me,” Jonathan said. “I owe my life to you.”
Feyn was silent. A tear slid out the corner of her eye. Jonathan lifted his hand, as though to touch it, but before he could she had dropped his braid and brushed it quickly away.
She turned to Roland.
“And who is this?”
“This is Roland.”
“A Nomad,” she said in a musing voice, seeming to take in not only his appearance but his very stature. She tilted her head. “Not just a Nomad, but a prince, I think. And so the stories are true. You still exist.”
“Indeed we do,” Roland said, inclining his head. He showed her respect, but Rom knew he would not bow before Order—or any other Corpse, for that matter. Only another Mortal would have noticed the barely perceptible way that he stiffened when she stepped toward him. The way his nostrils flared slightly at the smell of Dark Blood. And it was strong. Strong, but different from that of the Dark Blood that Roland had brought back to camp.
“I take it you’ve taken the office of your ring,” Roland said. “Before the senate?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at Rom. “We must hurry.”
Rom pushed aside the questions flooding his mind and nodded.
“Feyn… you remember why you gave your life for the boy?”
She looked at him, eyes dark, expressionless. “I remember.”
“Then you know how critical it is that he rule this world…”
He waited for her answer, breath stilled.
She gave none. But that was good enough for now.
“He must bring the world back to life from this office, either as Sovereign or through you.” He flipped his hand. “We c
an figure it all out later. For now we act on what we know, which is this: Saric wants to rule. How he managed to stay alive and find you, we don’t know, but he can only have one purpose. Surely you know his intentions.”
He couldn’t tell if she was at a loss or just allowing him to make his plea.
He continued, picking his words carefully. “Nine years ago as Sovereign, he changed the laws of succession. You do realize that if you were to die now, he would become Sovereign. Not Jonathan.”
She hesitated and then offered a single, shallow nod.
“At any moment he could reach out and kill you and rise to power.”
“Saric will not kill me,” she said.
“And what would stop him?”
“Love.”
“Love? Evil knows no love!”
“Then I am evil?” she asked with a raised brow. It was a soft-spoken challenge, not a question.
“No. But we can’t take any chances. You must remember Jonathan’s destiny to rule and save the world!”
She shifted her gaze to the boy who seemed to return her rapt interest.
“Is that how you feel?” she asked him.
“My blood brings life,” he said. “Not death. You died for me once… I don’t want you to die again.”
They faced off like two lost souls meeting for the first time. Two unsure Sovereigns at a critical crossing. Jonathan was only being crafty, he thought. Feyn…
The Sovereign was critically confused.
“How did Saric bring you back to life?” Rom asked.
“With his blood,” she said. “Isn’t that how you showed me life once? Through blood?”
“His?” How was it possible? “Saric’s?”
“This surprises you?”
“You’re saying blood from his body?”
“From his veins,” she said.
The revelation felt like a blow.
Roland moved closer, glancing at the door. “We don’t have time.”
Rom held up his hand. “There can be no comparison between whatever alchemy Saric has conjured up and Jonathan’s blood. Surely you know that.”
No response.
Roland was right. They had little time. “We need to reverse whatever Saric has done. You must take Jonathan’s blood.” Even as Rom said it, the image of the Dark Blood, slumped in the chair, tugged at the back of his mind.
He glanced at Jonathan. “Will it work?”
The boy nodded slowly. “It might.”
“It has to. We have to make her Mortal and figure out this problem of succession.”
“There’s something different about her,” Jonathan said quietly.
And it was true. She reeked of Dark Blood, but not in the same way as the Dark Blood earlier that morning. And Rom was suddenly certain he knew the source of the scent.
He turned to Jonathan, eyes wide with hope. “She drank the blood. The ancient blood. Not enough, but she tasted life once before.”
“Maybe that’s it,” Jonathan said, biting his lip.
“Roland.” He reached out to his second. “Stent.”
Roland withdrew the Keeper’s black bundle from under his cloak and handed it to Rom.
“Feyn—” Rom glanced up to find her looking through the great window at the dark sky outside. She turned at the sound of her name.
“We’ll begin with only a drop,” he said, laying the bundle on the bed. He released the ties and rolled it open, lifted out the gloves the Keeper insisted he use.
“You’ll need to sit still for a moment.”
“So much talk,” she said, folding her hands. “As though I weren’t truly here.”
“I’m sorry. Actually, you could take my blood—it has that property now. Any one of us can bring another to life.”
“Like Saric.”
“Yes. No. Not the same at all. There’s no blood as pure as Jonathan’s. If there’s one blood that can save you, it’s his. That’s why he insisted on coming.”
Feyn regarded Rom with a slight smile and a tilt of her head.
“Save your blood, Jonathan, for those who need saving.”
“You need saving!” Rom snapped.
“Do I? Do I look wounded to you? Like one who is sick? One near death in the Authority of Passing?”
“Authority of Passing?” Jonathan said.
She turned from Rom to Jonathan.
“Where the diseased and defective go to die, away from a fearful public. Where all who offend by their very Mortality are sent.”
Rom stared at her, struck by her choice of words. Mortality?
“Where is this center?” Jonathan said.
“You don’t know? On the southeast edge of the city outskirts. It’s where you would have been taken, born with a crooked leg as you were.”
“We didn’t come for them.” Rom fought a sudden surge of panic. “We came to help you.”
“Help me what, Rom? Give up my life again? I did that once.”
“This isn’t life you feel!”
“Isn’t it? I feel pain. I feel remorse. I feel pleasure…” She slid her gaze to Roland and back. “Ambition. Great purpose. And yes. Love. I’ve found a beautiful life, Rom Sebastian. How can you know that it is less than yours? That my love is less than the love you feel? The answer is: you can’t. I feel every bit as much beauty and joy to find myself alive now, tonight, as I ever felt once with you.”
“That can’t be,” he heard himself saying. “You’re confused. Nine years in stasis have left you weak.”
“But I’m not confused. I’m the Sovereign of the world. I am alive because of my Maker. I don’t need your help.”
“Your Maker?” Rom said, his voice rising.
She stared at him for a long time, expressing neither frustration nor hope. Perhaps her head was spinning in the pangs of rebirth.
And yet… she had experienced no rebirth. It couldn’t be.
“You should leave now,” Feyn said.
“Saric will kill you if you don’t let us help you, Feyn. You must see that. All hope will be lost!”
“You should leave. Now.”
“Please, Feyn!”
“Guard!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NINE YEARS BEFORE, the world had found hope through the death of one woman. Today that hope was shattered by her return from the grave.
Feyn, the Sovereign of the world, once pure of heart, remade by a dark force bent on crushing Jonathan. Feyn, whom he had loved.
And now she betrayed her intention to make it permanent with a single order.
These thoughts skipped through Rom Sebastian’s mind as his reality collapsed around him, threatening to weaken him in the face of the sole task that rendered all others moot.
Save Jonathan.
The cry was still in her throat when he moved, seeing it all at a rate familiar only to Mortals, the breakneck world slowing around him.
“Roland!”
He was across the chamber in three giant strides, slamming the door shut. The Nomad was there, shoving Feyn’s elaborate dressing table—the closest piece of furniture—in front of it.
Knuckles rapped on the bedroom door. “My Lady?”
Feyn took all of this in with wide eyes, but did not cry out again.
“My Lady!” More urgent.
Rom snapped his fingers at Jonathan and waved him toward the curtained stair. “Hurry!”
Rapping knuckles became a beating fist.
Rom gestured Roland after Jonathan and was halfway across the room himself when the fist on the door struck again, this time splintering the paneled wood. The ease with which the guard broke through the door stopped Rom for a split second. He knew Dark Bloods were strong, but what strength shattered a thick door so easily?
He could hear Roland and Jonathan running up the narrow stair. With a last glance back at Feyn, still rooted to the floor, he shoved the curtain aside and bounded up after them.
“Left,” he ordered, slipping past them. “Stay to his back.”
>
They ran down the hall, slipped through a door at the end, and flew down another staircase that spilled into a dark room.
Rom spun back, breathing thickly. He could hear footsteps running down the corridor—cutting them off from the direction they had come in. He glanced at Roland. He had heard them, too.
He spoke low, quickly. “We go out on the surface. Through the streets.” He flipped his hood up.
To Jonathan: “Stay on my heels, stop for nothing. Ten blocks to the basilica—you can’t miss the spires in this moonlight. The tallest you can see. If anything happens, keep going.”
To Roland: “Any threat, take them out. If we get separated, we meet there.”
Rom hurried to the door that exited into the outer hall, cracked it open. He glanced out for a moment before slipping through it and then sprinted for the palace’s main entrance, around the next corner. He’d been in the Citadel under duress too often for his liking, but was now thankful for his memory of its layout.
Jonathan was close behind him. Like all Mortals, he’d learned to maximize his ability to see in a fight, which put him at great advantage against a Corpse. The Dark Bloods were a different matter, but Roland had killed four of them easily enough. If the worst found them, Jonathan should be able to defend himself until Rom or Roland could step in.
Yet the worst had found them. As they ran, Rom cringed at the folly of risking so much by putting him in danger.
He stopped at the corner, snatched a look into the atrium and, finding it vacant, led them forward. They walked in even strides, straight for the main entrance.
Pounding feet and a shout of alarm echoed down a side passage from the direction of Feyn’s apartment.
Rom pulled up at the doors with his hand on the lever and turned quickly to Jonathan. “Don’t leave our backs. For any reason.”
The Sovereign yet-to-be returned a curt nod. Sovereign, because there had to be a way.
Rom glanced at Roland. Protect him with your life. The words didn’t need voicing.
He pushed the door open. Slipping out into the night, his eyes scanned the darkness.
Six broad marble steps descended before them to the concrete walkway, white in the moonlight. Beyond that, manicured lawns, tall shrubs against the thirty-foot-high Citadel wall, and the ornate ironwork of the Citadel’s side gate. Two guards in the gatehouse.
