Mortal

by Ted Dekker

  She glanced behind her. Clear… except for two shadowed silhouettes running toward them, still nearly a quarter mile away. Mortals. Rom and Roland.

  Relief flooded her. They would make it. Jonathan was safe, and she had been the one to save him.

  She would harbor a quiet and small amount of pride, knowing that.

  Jonathan, however, was fixated on the cart.

  “Jonathan?” she said, striding toward him. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

  He stepped closer to the cart, peering through the barred door at the back. Not only peering. He was absolutely fascinated. Wholly consumed by what he saw. She hurried to him, mentally steeling herself against the smell of Corpse.

  She drew up against his side and looked inside. Two benches, one on either side. Chained to one of the benches sat a young girl, perhaps ten or eleven years of age wearing a torn gray dress that hung on her thin body like a sack. Her long dark hair looked as though it hadn’t been touched by a comb for a week; her face was smudged as though it hadn’t seen soap for a month. Even so, she was a beautiful girl, Jordin thought, even dirty and staring at both of them with large, unblinking eyes. Eyes so resigned as to be nearly absent of fear.

  Nearly.

  Jordin saw the reason she had been taken: her right arm was wrong, crooked at the elbow. The hand below it only had three fingers. How long had she hidden that condition? How many years had she been kept confined, away from the others who would report her out of fear for their own lives… and afterlives?

  “What’s your name?” Jonathan asked in soft voice.

  Jordin glanced over. “Jonathan? We don’t have time…”

  He stepped forward, ignoring her. The girl pulled back a few inches, face round with worry.

  “No…” He reached for the bars. “Don’t be afraid.” His voice strained. “I’m not going to hurt you. Please… what’s your name?”

  The girl still didn’t answer. The stench of fear was so strong that Jordin felt compelled to lift her arm to cover her nose, but then immediately took offense at her own weakness. This young girl could have been her not so long ago…

  “My name’s Jonathan,” he said quietly. “I was born with a crooked leg. I was also born to give life and hope to the dead. They take my blood.” He paused. “It hurts me.”

  Jordin glanced at him. There were tears on his cheeks, but that wasn’t what caused her breath to stifle in her lungs. She’d never heard such a bold statement of pain from him, and hearing it now, spoken to a Corpse who couldn’t possibly understand, somehow crushed her.

  She told herself that he could only confess it to one he couldn’t hurt. That he cared too much to burden the recipients of his blood with the truth of his suffering. And yet…

  Jonathan had said this, knowing that she, Jordin, would hear and understand.

  She stood rooted to the street, fixed by a deep and terrible love for him. Suddenly desperate to repay him for his love with her life.

  For his life… with her love.

  “You’re a beautiful girl,” he said, “Please, tell me your name so I can remember you always.”

  The girl could only feel fear, but the stench of it softened. Rom and Roland were almost here, two blocks from the fallen Dark Blood. Behind them, just entering the street from alley, four others came at them at full sprint.

  Jordin touched Jonathan’s shoulder. “There’s more coming.”

  He ignored her. “Please tell me your name.”

  “Kaya,” the girl whispered.

  “Kaya,” Jonathan repeated. “A beautiful name. Where are they taking you, Kaya?”

  Tears flooded the girl’s eyes and broke down her face. “To die,” she whispered.

  Jonathan’s hands began to shake on the cold metal bars. “My blood can bring you to life.”

  “I have to be brave,” she said.

  Jonathan glanced down at the heavy lock on the door. There would be no breaking it.

  He looked up again. “Then we have to be brave together, Kaya. I’m afraid too.” He reached a hand toward her through the bars. “We have to be brave together. Take my hand.”

  His tears snaked down his mouth to his jaw.

  Rom was yelling now, racing toward them. “To the horses! Hurry, Jordin!”

  “Jonathan, we have to go!”

  “Take my hand. Please!” And in that moment, Jordin wasn’t sure who he did it for—the girl… or for himself.

  The girl looked from Jonathan to his outstretched hand and then slowly reached out, touching the tips of her fingers to his. He reached in, took her frail fingers in his, and held her hand.

  The world seemed to stall. Her vision swam, distorted—whether by the tears blurring it or the vivid sight of her Mortality as danger approached, she didn’t know. Only that something changed in that moment as she watched the exchange between Jonathan and the doomed girl.

  “Run!” Rom cried, running past the fallen Dark Blood now. “Move, now!”

  “I’ll find you, Kaya,” Jonathan said. “Remember me, when I bring my new kingdom!”

  The girl nodded, holding tight to his hand with both of hers.

  “Now!” Roland shouted.

  Jordin took his elbow. “Jonathan, please!”

  He let go of the girl’s hands like one tearing himself away. He turned to Jordin. “Don’t tell anyone what you saw.”

  “I—”

  “No one.”

  “I won’t,” she whispered.

  “Where are the horses?”

  She swallowed the knot of thick emotion in her throat. “Follow me.”

  Then they were running for the back of the basilica, and Rom and Roland were with them.

  Jonathan was safe for now.

  But Jordin also knew that Jonathan would never be truly safe.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FEYN HEARD THE FOOTFALL on the same stair by which Rom had fled an hour earlier. The sound of a boot that made no effort to mute itself, heavy as it landed on the flagstone of the chamber.

  She spun, half-expecting to see Rom returned. But it was Saric, now tying the curtain to one side with the heavy bullion cord tied to a ring in the ancient stone wall. He had shed his long velvet coat and wore only a simple pair of black trousers, his boots, and a dark shirt with sleeves rolled away from forearms far stronger than she remembered them.

  “My Lord,” she said.

  Silence.

  She paused, still unacquainted with this new Saric. He was so different from the impetuous half brother who had pushed for power with seething indignation. This man was far more controlled, far more affectionate, and far more strangely alluring. Her Maker.

  She wasn’t a concubine to come bounding after him, to come begging for his approval, though there was indeed the strange compulsion to go to him, if only to win that approval and hear again his words of love.

  When he turned and looked at her at last, she smiled.

  He did not.

  “I understand you had visitors,” he said, walking toward her.

  “Yes. The guard told you, then?”

  “Yes. The guard told me.”

  He stood over her, less than an arm’s length away, nostrils flaring slightly as he released a measured breath. His lips twitched—a slight smile.

  “Did you think?” Saric asked, gently drawing back a strand of hair from her cheek with tender fingers. “To tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to trouble you.”

  “And so you let them come… and you let them go.”

  “I thought your guard would stop them. Surely—they have, haven’t they?”

  His eyes, so startlingly dark, searched hers.

  “Tell me about them.”

  She glanced away, trying to subdue the strange sense of need—to clasp his hand to ask forgiveness for something, to thank him, to ask him to stay. Strange reactions to this man, her brother. But oddly beautiful.

  This new life was disconcerting. No wonder they had called it Chaos…

&n
bsp; “Rom Sebastian came to see me,” she said.

  “And was he alone?”

  Surely he knew the answers already.

  “No. He came with the Nomadic Prince, a man named Roland. And…”

  Why did she feel the urge to hesitate?

  “And?”

  “And the boy. Jonathan.”

  Saric stepped past her and walked to the large arching window to stare out at the night beyond.

  “And how is Rom Sebastian?”

  “He’s changed.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s their leader—the ones who’ve come to find life though Jonathan’s blood.”

  “To find life,” he echoed softly.

  She hesitated. “They call themselves Mortals.”

  “Mortals. How quaint.” Saric turned around to face her. “Tell me about Jonathan. What did he say?”

  “That he was sorry for what I did. They tried to give me his blood.”

  Saric stood as though carved of stone. “And?”

  “And I refused it. They thought I needed saving.”

  “And?”

  “And I said those at the Authority of Passing would be better served than me.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because they’re dead. I am not.”

  He dipped his head slowly, his first gesture of any approval. She found herself instantly eager for more.

  “The boy’s blood… Did they say anything about it?”

  “Only that it brings them to life.”

  “So the boy is a Maker. He tried to make you?”

  “They wanted me to take the boy’s blood. Or any of theirs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rom said that they can make others from their own blood. But that Jonathan’s is still the strongest.”

  Saric’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You’re certain of this? I need you to be precise. They claim they can make other Mortals from their own blood.”

  “They claim to, yes. They looked at me strangely, as if offended by my presence. It was very strange, as though—”

  “This boy you once died for… Do you realize what he is asking of you?”

  “Please tell me, my Lord.”

  “He would ask you to die for him again. You must understand this. Not a physical death, perhaps, but they would destroy you under the guise of saving you. Don’t you see? They have no place for you, Feyn. You are a pawn to them.”

  “They put me in stasis—”

  “Yes, to calm their weak consciences so that they could claim they did not kill. The letter of the law, isn’t it? Or perhaps they really meant to bring you back again at some point for some self-serving purpose before discarding you permanently, and no doubt more effectively than before.”

  “They say that if I die you will be Sovereign, so they have no desire to kill me.”

  “Yes, of course. This is common knowledge. But they will not stop until you are destroyed or a puppet in their hands.”

  She glanced down at her own hands. At the moonstone—the reminder of a nonlife far simpler than truly living… and at the ring of power on her other hand that was her fate. Why did it feel to her as though she were winding her way through a carefully engineered maze?

  “Knowing that, what do you think of them?”

  She hesitated. Something within her said, Saric, too, wanted to kill you once.

  But Saric had brought her to life. True life, and true purpose. And she loved and served him for it.

  “I’m glad.”

  “Glad.”

  “Glad that I did it. And grateful to the Keeper who killed me. If I hadn’t died then, I would not serve you now.”

  The need, by now, for a look, a touch, a word from him was overwhelming. It rose up in her chest, an urge far more powerful than the need to eat.

  “So,” he said, as though to himself. “The boy is a Maker.”

  “They say so.”

  To this, Saric did not respond. He seemed to have stopped breathing.

  Terrified that she had hurt him, Feyn stepped forward. “Saric… My Lord…” She stood before him, desperate for his love. “I hope I pleased you.”

  She didn’t have the chance to react before his fist slammed into her face. She crashed to the floor onto her chest, unable to break her fall. For an awful moment her lungs felt like iron, refusing to expand. Sticky warmth filled her mouth and ran out to the floor.

  “There can be only one Maker!” Saric said.

  With a heavy gasp she hauled in a breath, then coughed up blood along with a bloody tooth.

  A heavy step sounded near her head. She braced herself. But instead of another blow, he crouched down onto a knee beside her.

  His was strangely gentle. “Didn’t you understand when I told you the first time? Only one. Anyone who stands in my way will die. Do you understand me, my love?”

  She pushed herself up and slowly nodded, head still ringing.

  “Please answer me.”

  “Yes,” she said thickly.

  He sighed. “My poor love.” He leaned forward and wrapped muscled arms around her. “Please don’t force me to do it again.”

  She reached a hand up toward her lip, to feel the place just beneath it where the tooth had been.

  “You’ve lost a tooth?”

  She nodded.

  “Please don’t cry—it’s beneath a Sovereign.”

  Hot tears coursed down her face.

  “You must understand, Feyn… All that I do, I do for destiny. For true life. For love. Until you submit fully to the life I have given you, you will never know its true beauty. Correcting my children is no easier for me than for them. It pains me to see your confusion.” He kissed the top of her head. “There is no greater love than mine. You will see.”

  Saric rose to his feet, cradling her against his chest. Through the pounding in her head she was vaguely aware that he had bypassed her bed and strode to the open archway leading to the stair. He carried her up the stair and down the dark corridor to his own chamber above.

  She hadn’t set foot in this chamber in far more than nine years. It had changed. It was flooded with candlelight. The hard clip of his boots muted the instant he entered, cushioned by thick rugs and animal pelts. Heavy silks hung everywhere, reflecting rich, crimson hues.

  He settled her among the thick pillows of his bed, arranging the comforter over her, smoothing back a tendril of her hair

  A Dark Blood appeared in the archway to the anteroom.

  “Bring Corban,” Saric said. “The Sovereign has been hurt. Hurry.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Take a team and seal off the crypts. Close the tunnels. All of them.”

  Time seemed out of place. Darkness threatened to steal her thoughts. She was only aware of Saric’s caring hand lightly stroking her cheek.

  Corban came in, took a knee in the chamber, but only for an instant before hurrying to the bed.

  “See to your Sovereign,” Saric said.

  He bent and kissed her gently on the forehead before straightening. “She is far too precious to be hurt. Tend to her as if she were me. Not a bruise by morning.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BELOW THE VISTA of the high limestone cliff overlooking the Seyala Valley, revelry had finally given way to sleep. The beating of the great Nomad drums in time to the hearts straining at full gallop around the fire had slowed to a nodding pulse and then quieted at last. The songs had landed on their final strains, and the echoes of ululating calls had died. Lovers had slipped away from camp and returned to darkened yurts to lie down in one another’s arms.

  The Seyala Valley held the very promise of life preparing to burst onto the world’s stage. Or so they all believed. What would happen if they knew that another kind of life had taken to that stage with its own alien roar?

  Panic would run through the camp like a wildfire. And so they must not know.

  In four days’ time the annual Gathering would sweep the
camp into a night of unrestrained revelry in anticipation of Jonathan’s coming reign. Nothing could be allowed to dampen the hopes and dreams that would be celebrated that night.

  Rom glanced at the sky. His eyes were gritty from riding and sore with fatigue. In four short hours, dawn would illuminate this plateau, but it would be an hour more before the same light made its way into the sleeping valley below.

  Beside him, Roland pulled a flask from his saddle. Neither one of them had spoken of the previous night’s disaster on the ride home. Rom had sent Jonathan and Jordin back to camp ahead of them and then ridden with his second to the vista, a place they often came to discuss matters alone, away from the too-seeing Mortal eyes and ears of the others. The Nomad took a long pull and held the flask out to Rom, who ignored it. He’d lost his appetite for food or drink.

  “Take some,” Roland said. “You need it.”

  Rom accepted the flask and took a swig. It was wine, not water. For a moment he thought about spitting it out, but then swallowed it instead.

  For nine years their path had been so clear: bring Jonathan back to Byzantium to claim his office as Sovereign of the world on the day that he reached eighteen. It had been simple, though he had never been naïve enough to think they might not encounter at least some resistance. But now…

  He couldn’t get over the sight of Feyn, the ring of office on her hand. The strange turn of her lip when she’d told them to save those who need saving. The way she had yelled for the guard.

  She had given her life for this very cause—for the cause of life itself! How could she refuse to accept it from Jonathan’s veins?

  And how long would she refuse him his place on the throne?

  He took another pull from the flask and set it on the rock beside him. Roland stood to his right, thumb hooked in the belt that held his scabbard, staring at the valley.

  “Jonathan turns eighteen in six days,” Rom said at last. “This changes nothing.”

  “Jonathan can’t succeed her now.”