Mortal

by Ted Dekker

“He has to. He was born to rule.”

  “And so begins the last struggle for power,” Roland said.

  “There will be no struggle for power,” Rom snapped. “Not the way you think of it.”

  “I think of it only one way—either we win or we lose.”

  Rom turned from the valley and raked a hand through his hair, which he wore free except for a few braids designating his rank among the the Nomads.

  “If Jonathan can’t rule we’ve already lost. And I can’t accept that.”

  Roland eyed him stoically. “I didn’t say Jonathan can’t rule. I said he can’t succeed Feyn. Her rule changes the succession. Even if she dies now, Saric becomes Sovereign. Saric has assured his own power. Or am I missing something?”

  Rom scrubbed at his face with a hand.

  No. He hadn’t missed anything. Saric had effectively snatched supremacy out from under them without warning or recourse.

  “All I know is that Jonathan must come to power.”

  “Must he?”

  Rom jerked his head around and stared at him. “What are you saying?”

  “How do we know that Jonathan ‘must’ come to power?”

  “What do you mean how do we know Jonathan must come to power?” Rom demanded. “You question this now? After all these years?”

  Roland turned his face to the dark valley. “No. But I’m not always certain what that power will look like. Mortal blood will rule this world, I know that much. And in that sense, Jonathan’s already ascended—in us. We’re alive, and the rest of the world is dead. We will live a very long time while generations of Corpses come and go. Our power is supreme. Meanwhile, Jonathan’s blood grows stronger—there’s no telling how powerful Mortals will become. In that way, Jonathan already rules through our blood. And perhaps it’s our privilege to rule with him.”

  “Sovereignty is his right, not ours. Maker, what are you suggesting?”

  “Only that we may be placing a burden on the boy that isn’t his to carry.” Roland squatted to his heels and squinted over at Rom. “Do you honestly see a ruler in that boy?”

  Rom paused.

  The Nomad picked up a pebble and flicked it over the lip of the cliff with his thumb. “You heard what happened by the Basilica of Spires.”

  The boy hadn’t spoken a word, but Rom had quietly questioned Jordin on the ride back to the valley. He’d seen Jonathan peering into the Authority of Passing transport, the way he’d been rooted to the spot, unhearing, risking himself. Risking all. Jordin, ever-protective of Jonathan, offered no more detail other than his empathy for some girl being taken to the Authority of Passing.

  “He’s got an unnatural fascination with Corpses,” Roland said.

  The bluntness of his words grated. Grated, because they were true.

  Rom himself had known a girl like the one in the cart once, who might easily have ended up in her same place. A girl destined for far greater things than to disappear behind institutional doors.

  Thinking of Avra no longer hurt, but it did bolster his resolve. She, too, had given her life to this cause, the first among them to do so. Her death would not be—would never be as long as Rom lived—in vain.

  The boy had to come to power.

  “He’s the Giver of Life. What do you expect? Maybe we should all be as fascinated.”

  “It’s self-destructive. There’s far more at stake here than a few Corpses, Rom. He jeopardized his own safety and by extension the future Mortal kingdom. Do you see a leader in that?”

  “I see a Sovereign who understands love more than any of us. I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you—you, of all people. Nomads rule by bloodline. So will Jonathan. The only reason Feyn is Sovereign now is because of Saric’s interference. You vowed Jonathan your life. It’s not your place to question.”

  Roland rose, jaw set. “You dare question my loyalty? I will defend his legacy to my death! But there’s more than one way to rule, Rom. Jonathan made us Mortal. We have his blood in our veins. We are his legacy. If anything happens to him, we are bound to honor and defend that legacy. That is how we win. Anything less than that—anything that brings death to Mortals—is defeat to us.”

  “And what of Jonathan?”

  “Jonathan—”

  “Will you defend him or not?”

  “Yes! Do not insult me by questioning my loyalty.”

  Rom exhaled a single long breath, through his nostrils. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to direct my frustration at you.”

  “Your frustration’s warranted. But the fact of the matter is I’m right. Everything has changed. A great struggle for power has begun. This won’t go down smoothly. And so we must consider all options, including the possibility that Jonathan may not be Sovereign in six days. There are other ways to win this war.”

  “Now you call it a war?”

  Roland shrugged. “Is it anything else?”

  He had a point.

  “We won’t be spilling any blood just yet,” Rom said. “You saw how strong the Dark Bloods were. How quick.”

  “They only have a few thousand.”

  “Only? We only have seven hundred warriors.”

  Roland eyed him, brow arched. “Most of them Nomads and superb fighters. My men can defeat three thousand Dark Bloods, you have my word on it.”

  “We don’t even know where they are.”

  “No, but we can get to Saric.”

  “How.”

  “Via his puppet at the Citadel,” Roland said. “Let me take twenty men and I’ll bring you his head in two days’ time.”

  “Kill Saric and his hive will come after us in a swarm.” Rom shook his head. “We can’t risk all-out war—not now.”

  Roland seemed prepared for this answer. “At the very least I insist we send out scouts beyond our perimeter in search of the rest of his Dark Bloods. It’s a risk, but we can’t sit back and wait.”

  “Fine. But we risk nothing more. Not so close to our goal.”

  “But our goal just changed. Saric has to die.”

  “That’s your only suggestion? To assassinate Saric and engage his army?”

  The Nomadic Prince studied him. “You have another?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Here it was, then. “We take her.”

  Roland stared at him for a moment. “Take who?”

  “Feyn.”

  “Take Feyn. Just like that. You think Saric is going to just hand her over? She’s the Sovereign of the world!”

  “Yes. I think he will.”

  “And assuming Saric would do something so foolhardy, what do you plan to do with her? Seduce her?”

  Rom reached for the flask. “I’m going to talk sense to her.”

  A twitch at the corner of Roland’s mouth. “I know you had something with her once and I can’t say I blame you. But whatever it was, it’s gone. You saw her.”

  “I didn’t have something with her before. But she has the ancient blood in her. Maker knows—I gave it to her! Give me a few hours with her and I’ll make her remember who she is and why she died.”

  “You saw her eyes. She’s not going to help us.”

  “She will.” But even as he said it, Rom felt again that vague sense of encroaching panic.

  Feyn’s eyes, once the celebrated Brahmin gray, haunted his memory. They had been her trademark to the world before the black of Saric’s alchemy had obscured them. The true Feyn had to exist somewhere beneath those inky depths.

  “She’s Saric’s pawn. He’s her Maker now,” Roland insisted.

  “No. She has the ancient blood in her.”

  “She has her Maker’s blood in her now.”

  “I was her Maker!” Rom thundered.

  Roland held his gaze steady but said nothing.

  Rom turned away, relaxed his balled fists. He’d gone over and over it for hours on the ride back—the way she’d looked at Jonathan. The tear from her eye. Something had moved in her. The way she’d hesitated before calling fo
r the guard. She was loyal to Saric, but she was also confused. Disoriented. In a freer context, she would surely see the truth. There was no other way without risking all-out war.

  “She’s our best play.”

  “Our best play is to act now. Come down on Saric like a hammer. Slaughter him. Wait for his Dark Bloods to come raging and crush them in one blow.”

  “I won’t commit our destiny to a single campaign that could backfire and invite military hostility toward Jonathan—not while we have other options.”

  “Taking Feyn from Saric, assuming it’s even possible, will have exactly that effect!”

  “We aren’t going to take her from Saric.”

  Roland lifted his brows.

  “Saric’s going to give her to us.”

  “He’s going to give her to us. Of course. Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Maybe because your mind is on blood. Maybe because you haven’t tangled with that monster before the way I have. Maybe because you don’t know Feyn as I do.”

  “As you did, you mean,” Roland said. He sighed, squinting at the rising sun and then back at Rom. “So just how do you get Saric to hand over the Sovereign of the world to his enemies? Enlighten me.”

  Rom paced, hands on his hips. “I don’t. You do.”

  “Me.”

  “Yes. You alone.”

  “I see. And I do this how?”

  “You offer him what he wants.”

  “Which is?”

  Rom hesitated a beat, gripped by a sense of betrayal at the mere thought of what he was about to voice.

  “Jonathan,” he said.

  Roland’s unblinking gaze held his own. For a moment neither of them spoke.

  “He’ll never believe it.”

  “He would never believe me. But you, the wild Nomad prince with ambition and blood in his veins…”

  “He’d suspect a trap. Saric’s no idiot.”

  “Of course he’ll suspect a trap,” Rom said.

  “How would I even approach—”

  “By doing exactly as I say,” Rom said. “I know the Order. I know the Brahmins and I know Saric. I’ll lay it all out for you and you can judge the plan as you like. All I ask is that you put thoughts of war from your mind. Follow me in this, Roland. I could command it, but I’m asking. For Jonathan’s sake.”

  Roland crossed his arms and then said slowly: “For the sake of Mortals. All right. Feyn it is. Assuming you’ve thought of everything.”

  “I have.”

  The sound of a hoof scattering pebbles clattered behind them, and Rom spun, hand already on his knife.

  “Easy.” The old Keeper’s voice grated through the night.

  Rom stepped forward as the Keeper’s horse ambled toward them in the early dawn. “Book. What is it?”

  The old Keeper stopped his horse and slid cautiously to the ground without answering.

  “Who told you we were here?” Roland said.

  The man looked up, adjusted his tunic where it had bunched around his hips. “You don’t think I know where to look?”

  Rom exchanged a quick look with Roland and then addressed the Keeper.

  “So?”

  “I have news.”

  “What news.”

  “About Jonathan’s blood.”

  They waited as the Keeper seemed to search the still-dark western sky.

  “Well?” Rom said at last. “What about Jonathan’s blood?”

  “I tested it with the Dark Blood’s own and there’s no doubt about it.”

  “About what, man?”

  The old man shook his grizzled head. “That his blood is poisonous to these Dark Bloods. Even a drop of Jonathan’s blood would kill one.”

  The poisonous aspect was obvious, if the quantity that it would take was not. So why the urgency?

  The image of Jonathan offering Feyn his blood suddenly flashed before Rom’s mind with a prickle of panic.

  No. She had the ancient blood in her veins.

  “You came here to tell us what we witnessed with our own eyes,” Roland said.

  “No. There’s something else.”

  “Well?”

  “Mortal blood, any Mortal blood—not only Jonathan’s—would kill these Dark Bloods as well.”

  Roland arched a brow. “So I could kill them all with only my own blood. We have a new weapon.”

  “Yes. And in fact your blood, Nomad, would kill them more quickly than Jonathan’s.”

  Roland narrowed his eyes, and Rom could all but hear the thoughts whirling through his mind like a desert dervish.

  “What do you mean would kill them more quickly? How is that possible?”

  The Keeper turned his eyes to Rom.

  “Because his blood and your blood—all of our blood—is now stronger than Jonathan’s.”

  Rom blinked. “Stronger? That’s impossible…”

  “No, my friend. I’ve checked and rechecked. Jonathan’s blood is weaker now than it was two weeks ago when I last drew a sample. The effects of his blood are lessening. At a rapid pace. All the key indicators are reversing.”

  Rom stared at the old man. How was this possible? It had to be a mistake! But the Keeper did not make mistakes and then ride to the cliffs to announce them in secrecy.

  “What I’m saying,” the old Keeper said, “is that any who would take Jonathan’s blood today would not live as long as those who took it a month ago. Their emotions would not be as vibrant, their sight will not be as bright as it would be if they took blood from one of us.”

  “So Jonathan’s blood is becoming obsolete,” Roland said.

  “No! Impossible!”

  “No,” the Keeper said. “Not obsolete. But certainly less potent.”

  Roland stepped forward. “Then—”

  “Then nothing! It only increases our urgency to get him to power. He is Sovereign and he will reign as Sovereign. Until then, no one learns of this. Do you understand? Not a soul!” Rom paced, frantic, mind washed with impossible questions. He stopped dead in front of the Keeper.

  “Draw another sample at first light,” he said, before turning to Roland. “Feyn. You will get her. Immediately.”

  Roland looked from Rom to Keeper then back.

  He nodded. “Tell me how.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SLEEP CAME WITH DIFFICULTY for Roland that night. When his dreams finally shut out the world they were filled with images of death. Of Corpses and Dark Bloods swarming the earth in search of those few remaining Mortals left in the wake of a misguided promise of dominion.

  Before returning to camp, he’d spent another half hour with Rom, stepping through the path that might lead to Feyn’s acquisition. The plan was fraught with madness, but no more than going directly after Saric or staging a coup of the Order itself—notions that had surfaced in Roland’s mind in his most far-reaching moments.

  Which was more often than he cared to admit.

  But a conflict with Saric would cost many Mortal lives. And though a coup might secure power in the Citadel, that power would require force to maintain.

  In the end, Rom was right: the best—if not the most likely—path for Jonathan’s ascension to power would be through Feyn’s resignation of her seat. Or, failing that, some kind of irrevocable agreement granting Jonathan power in her stead. In either case they would still have to contend with Saric and his Dark Bloods, but doing so from a seat of political power would be much easier than as outcasts.

  How exactly Rom planned to maneuver Feyn into agreement once she was in his grasp Roland wasn’t sure, but his insistence that they had nothing to lose held merit. If the ploy failed they could resort to more hostile measures.

  But none of these thoughts were what kept him from sleep for a full hour as he lay alone in his personal quarters. He owned three yurts—one for his two concubines who’d been chosen for their fertility and health to bear heirs; one for his wife, Amile, who had given him two girls and wore her status as the sole wife of Roland with supre
me pride; and one for his position as ruler of all Nomads.

  He’d retired to this last yurt and reclined on a mat in the early morning, mind still circling this revelation from the Keeper about Jonathan’s blood.

  Around him the rest of the camp was bedded down, oblivious to the truth—as they must be for now. If word leaked…

  No.

  The greatest strength of any Nomad was his resolve to independence. Generations of separatism had bred deep loyalty to their own. Now, having woken to raging passion and ambition, their desire to consume the world knew no bounds.

  Life—as Mortals fully alive—was the cornerstone of their existence, and his people were determined to experience it as none else on earth could. As a race of humans who would live for many hundreds of years without subjugation. And now the Keeper seemed to be suggesting that the very source of that life was slowly waning.

  Roland still couldn’t fathom the full implications of the Keeper’s news. What bearing it might have on Jonathan’s rule. How it might affect the rise of Mortals or the overthrow of Order’s oppressive regime that had squashed the world with fear. Fear of failing Order in this life. Fear of questioning truth. Of breaking from the status quo. Of veering from perfect obedience. Fear of death because in death all who failed in any way found only Hades. And everyone knew that everyone failed.

  Many things were unclear to Roland, but the destiny of Mortals was not among them. Their race would throw down Order and live free from fear. Free of restraint. And he knew, too, that the task of ensuring that destiny fell on his own shoulders more than anyone else’s—including Jonathan, the vessel who’d brought them life.

  All these thoughts circled relentlessly through Roland’s mind even as he slept. When he woke with the first sounds of a stirring camp outside, he ordered Maland, the longtime servant who kept guard outside his yurt, to find the Keeper and bring him immediately. Under any other circumstance he might go to the Keeper himself, but the chance of running into Rom or any other council member might undermine his intentions. He had to speak to the man without anyone’s knowledge.

  An hour passed. Roland glanced over at the door flap. Heavy and set into a frame, it was made to withstand severe weather so that even in the midst of a storm, it only seemed to breathe like a diaphragm with the wind. This morning it was utterly still, a faint ray of sunlight filtering down to the yurt floor from the small wheel-like opening at the top. The yurt was furnished with a couple thick rugs and the mat he had tossed and turned on the night before. A goblet and plate of dried meat and wild plums sat atop a trunk that held several items of clothing—those that were not hung on the inside lattice of the yurt itself: several hand-beaded coats and tunics made by his wives and decorated by Roland himself. Three compound bows, including one more than three hundred years old. Several curved swords and knives, including three swords from the Age of Chaos—relics carefully preserved as reminders of the tenacious Nomadic heritage passed down over the centuries for this day.