Mortal

by Ted Dekker

  “Yes, forgive me. And yet—”

  “I will die for this office,” she interrupted. “And serve it.”

  “Would you die also for the truth, lady—of the Maker, and of the Order that is his hand?”

  “The truth? What is the truth, Dominic?”

  He said what was said by all, learned in early childhood. “We know the Maker through his Order.”

  “I see. Then I must ask you, Dominic, what is a Maker?”

  “But of course, the one who gives life, my lady.”

  “And do you have life?”

  “Yes. Though your brother doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “And I? Do I have life?”

  He glanced at her hands, then her eyes. “Clearly.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You see, you breathe.” How could he not shudder at the memory of her first, ragged gasp of air as her chest had arched up off that altarlike stone table?

  “And how do you know that you have life?” she asked.

  “Because I stand here before you.”

  “I see. And what is the purpose of our lives, if you don’t mind?”

  “To serve the Maker.”

  “Then we are in agreement.”

  Dominic nodded slightly. “And we know the Maker through Order.”

  “We know the Maker by his stamp upon us. By the life in our veins, do we not?”

  “I… yes. In a manner of speaking.”

  “And we know the Maker also by those inner leanings we all have to serve him, do we not? The fear of disappointing him in any way.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Some call it fear. But we, Dominic, know it as loyalty. As love. Do we not?”

  Why did he feel the need to hesitate?

  But no. He was simply taken aback to see her so well recovered. And clothed.

  “Yes,” he replied. “By our love.”

  “But do you really know what love is, Dominic?”

  “It is the fear of the Maker. It is the thing we commit to, that we make our actions and minds beholden to.”

  “And if we love our Maker, do we also love and serve his hand?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Am I the hand of the Maker on earth, Dominic?”

  “Indeed, my lady. You are the One.”

  “Was I not born and raised to be Sovereign by the laws of succession, chosen by the Maker?”

  “There is no question, my lady. You are the rightful Sovereign.”

  “You are a man of the Book, Dominic. I wonder, what is the punishment for anyone who would stand in the way of the Order’s elect taking office? Of one who would even rule… out of Order… in her stead?”

  He paused.

  “Dominic?”

  “Death, my lady.”

  “Hmm.”

  Again, the image of Rowan’s head falling from his neck sliced through his mind.

  “And yet you recoiled at that punishment when it was carried out. Do you object to the rules of Order?”

  “Never! By my word, I have served Order all my life. Diligently, with the hope of Bliss.”

  “So you will swear your loyalty to me?”

  “But of course, my Sovereign.”

  “How can I know for certain?”

  Dominic was only just aware that his purpose in coming to Feyn had somehow been reversed. He was now the one under interrogation. Her power as Sovereign was evident even now.

  “The Maker knows my loyalty,” he said. “Demand anything of me so that you will know as well.”

  She watched him without expression, dark eyes unblinking, haunting.

  “Kneel before your Sovereign.”

  He lowered both knees to the thick rug in one motion.

  Feyn rose, set the goblet aside, and stepped up to him.

  “You give me your full loyalty?”

  “I do, my lady.”

  “The Maker has chosen me to rule over you as Sovereign. Will you defer to my judgment and wisdom in all things?”

  “I will.”

  “Swear it.”

  “I swear.”

  She stepped closer—so close that he might reach out and touch the velvet of her gown. Her hand rested on top of his head. He could feel the warmth of it through his graying hair. Again, the smell of musk, spice, wine…

  “Even if you may not understand my actions, you will defer to me in all things, trusting that I am loyal to the Maker,” she said quietly.

  Why this sense of relief, this abating of fear that came with such a clear path? “I will.”

  “Even if it surpasses your own understanding, defies your own logic and will.”

  “I will.”

  “Then you do well.” Her hand slid down to his cheek. She tilted his face up and gazed at him with a hint of tenderness. “One day I may reward you with a gift. If I do, take it with grace.”

  “I will, my lady. But serving is gift enough.”

  His fear was nearly gone, replaced by strange and profound peace. Yes. Surely here was the mouth and hand of the Maker on earth.

  “You may rise.”

  He would have remained on his knees until they stiffened and he could no longer feel his feet. But he slowly rose to his feet, light-headed.

  “My lady?”

  “That is all, Dominic,” she said, retrieving her goblet from the side table.

  He backed a step and bowed his head. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Dominic made his way across the thick carpet to the double doors. This time, when he laid his hand on the image of the compass—the same one emblazoned on the other side—he drew a long, slow breath. Cleared his head.

  He knew two things now: That the Maker was known by his Order. And that Feyn was the voice of that Order. He was devout. He would follow. And Bliss would come in its wake.

  “Ah, Dominic?”

  “My lady?” he said, turning back.

  She was standing behind her desk, a pillar of velvet, candlelight warming her ivory skin.

  “You should know one thing before you leave.”

  “Yes?”

  She lowered herself into her chair, gaze riveted on him. “I will not betray my brother.”

  Feyn stared at the heavy bronze doors long after the senate leader had left.

  Long after she had drained the goblet dry in one long draw. Even as the hand descended on her shoulder.

  As she knew it would.

  She turned her head as Saric leaned down and kissed her gently. But not so gently that she didn’t feel the bruise on her cheek.

  “You did well, my love.”

  Her need for him swelled. To hear those words, as though they were the very blood he had given her. He’d been watching her the whole time. She had known about the small corridor beyond the curtained wall behind the desk since she was a child. Her own father, Vorrin, had instructed her to stand in the corridor on many state visits to observe negotiations through the years of her training for this very office.

  “You were pleased?” she said.

  “How beautifully… how effortlessly, you dominate him with talk of loyalty to the Maker.”

  “Yes,” she said, gazing ahead of her, somehow wishing that the curtains were open, even to the night. She would see to that.

  “And who is that Maker?”

  “You are, my Lord.”

  “That’s right. I’m impressed by your skill. Let those who come to ply you think you have played into their hands. And ply them instead.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, turning her cheek into his hand.

  “You see? You’re a natural, my love. And one day, he will be of great use to us.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded, then sat on the edge of the desk, sliding the empty goblet away. “I have something I must talk to you about.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Mortals came into the city from the north.”

  She blinked. “Then we will search north.”

  He lifted his head and ga
zed past her. “It seems they can smell our blood.”

  Smell it? Was it even possible? And then she remembered the way the Nomad, Roland, had drawn back and turned his head as though to lessen some reek. The way Rom had steeled himself when he had first come close.

  “My Dark Bloods have a disadvantage in scouting. There was an incident at an outpost… one body missing among the charred remains. A child of mine taken, I assume, by the Mortals. Any information he gave them would be false—my children are carefully trained and utterly loyal. But that he could be taken at all concerns me.”

  When Saric looked back down at her, his eyes flashed with a terrifying intensity that brought to mind his harshest rebuke.

  “You will dispatch five hundred of your men to the north. Guards, dressed as vagrants. They will scour the wastelands and canyons for any sign of the Nomads. At first sighting they will report back. We must find them. Is this clear?”

  “As you wish, brother.”

  Saric stared at her for the space of several breaths. Then he lifted his hand and stroked the fading bruise on her cheek with his thumb.

  “Call me your Maker when we are alone. It pleases me more.”

  “As you wish, my Maker.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JORDIN WAS UP EARLY by Nomadic standards. Early, and troubled.

  Dawn had drifted to the valley hours ago, illuminating the foothills, spreading out along the valley floor. Sunlight dappled the water of the shallow river before spreading across the round tops of yurts and creeping up the great stair of the Bahar ruins against the eastern wall. If the sun held long enough, the marble steps would gleam white by noon. And if the sky remained cloudless through the afternoon, gold light would reach past the columns of the ancient basilica and illuminate the ancient stained glass with colorful fire.

  The day was full of life.

  But Jonathan was missing.

  She never failed to find him somewhere—downriver, where he sometimes went to bathe, or with the horses, where he spent hours plaiting the mane and tail of his stallion, fixing them with the ornaments given to him in such abundance that he couldn’t possibly wear them all himself. Sometimes she found him in the foothills, carving, alone, or sleeping, having gone to the high knolls sometime during the wild revelry of the night before.

  But this morning, he was nowhere to be found. Adah, who rose early to cook for him and Rom, had come to Jordin asking where he was. She’d gone looking in his small yurt at the center of camp, but there was no sign that he’d been there at all during the night. When she got to the pen she learned that his horse was gone.

  So then where? If she could not locate him soon, she would have to tell Rom, which would cast a shadow on her role as his protector. It was one thing for the others not to know his whereabouts, but not her.

  She strode along the edge of the western cliff, north of the camp, high above the foothills. Drawing a slow breath, she willed back the first fingers of panic and forced herself to see down through the valley past the waking camp.

  Jonathan had been silent since their return from Byzantium, the day before yesterday. She knew he was haunted by the doomed girl, Kaya. And by the Corpses they’d seen outside the city. One look in his eyes and she knew he was deeply troubled in ways that no one—perhaps not even Jordin herself—could understand. He’d worn loneliness like a mantle since their return.

  Jordin jogged along the cliff edge, fighting back fear—an emotion unusual to her in the years of her Mortality, but an easily recalled nightmare from her years as a Corpse. She had feared abandonment most of her life, until the day she met Jonathan. Now the thing she feared most was simply living without him.

  She scanned the valley north to south from the horse pen on the northernmost edge of camp. Along the river to the broadening valley, out toward the main river which ran all the way from the wilderness to the western coast, out to sea.

  She was about to head back to the south side when she saw the dark spot askance through the sunlight, far south, riding up the distant wash. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and squinted to focus.

  A rider. A mile out, traveling at a walk as though having covered hours of terrain. Then she recognized the height and color of the dun horse, the posture of the rider…

  Jonathan.

  She stood fixed for a full second, heart hammering in her ears. Her first thought was that he was safe. Thank the Maker he was safe.

  Her second thought was that her Sovereign had gone far. On a horse. Very far. Without anyone’s knowledge.

  She had to reach him first. She had to be by his side when he came into camp. She had to know where he’d been.

  Jordin ran to the rocky outcrop where she’d climbed up from the knoll, swearing to never leave him alone for more than an hour ever again. Not so close to his ascension.

  She flew through the foothills, questions drumming through her mind. Down the last hill to the valley floor, running the half mile across the shallows of the river, cutting through camp, leaping over fires still smoldering from the night before.

  Heads turned. Children paused their playing to look up. Warriors stared, mothers turned from their cooking and shouted after their children, who came trotting after her. The sight of Jordin running through camp in such haste was rare and could only mean one thing: Jonathan.

  He was just coming into the south side of the camp when she caught sight of him, his stallion at a steady walk. She ran faster.

  Only then did she see that others were staring his way. Not just watching but rooted to the ground. Fixated. She reached the steps of the ruins when she realized what everyone else was staring at.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Jordin pulled up short next to a dozen others, gathered to watch his return. There, behind him on his horse, was a second figure. Smaller, peering around Jonathan, clutching him by the waist. A boy, barely twelve, if that.

  His scent hit her like a gust of hot wind.

  Corpse.

  Bringing any Corpse into the valley was an express violation of Nomadic law. Other than the spies who came to meet with Rom, she hadn’t seen a Corpse outside Byzantium since the last of the Mortals had been made. That was before the moratorium years ago.

  A figure came stalking out into the clearing before the ruin stair, dark beads glinting in his hair, followed closely by another. The hair stood up on her arms.

  Maro the zealot.

  She hurried forward as several others came out of their yurts, noses covered by cloth or hands.

  “What is that odor of death?” someone said behind her.

  “Corpse!” She knew the booming voice well: Rhoda, the belligerent blacksmith who hit wine as hard and often as she hit steel. “Good Maker… He’s brought a Corpse to camp…”

  Jonathan did not slow, did not show any concern. He wore a mask of simple resolve, as though the looks of shock had nothing to do with him at all.

  But Jordin knew better. Her sovereign might be quiet much of the time, but his intelligence was superior in ways that few knew as well as she. And his powers of observation were keener than even Roland’s.

  The first time she’d seen it, they been at the lookout above, two years earlier, legs dangling over the cliff, watching the camp far below. After half an hour of silence, Jordin had braved a question.

  “My Sovereign?”

  “Yes?”

  “May I ask a question?”

  He’d looked at her, mouth curved in amusement. “If I can ask one first.”

  “Of course.” Then she added, “My Sovereign.”

  “Will you call me Jonathan instead of Sovereign?” he asked.

  She assumed the more formal title more appropriate—especially from one without position like her.

  “Jonathan?”

  “I like the way you say it.”

  “Jonathan.”

  His smile widened. “Thank you.”

  In retrospect, she thought she’d fallen in love with him in that moment, sta
ring into his bright hazel eyes, which never wandered from her own.

  “Your turn.”

  “Mine?”

  “Your question?”

  “Oh… Yes. I was wondering. What goes through your mind when you watch the camp for so many hours?”

  He looked at the valley below, lost again in thought for a few moments.

  “There are twelve hundred and eleven Mortals alive today. They all live in this valley. Seventeen are in the river now, bathing. Five hundred and fifty-three that I’ve seen have ventured out of their yurts this morning. Just shy of seven hundred still slumber, most of whom did not sleep until early morning. Three hundred and twelve danced around the fire last night…” He faced her. “I know all of their names.”

  She was astonished at his powers of observation, the keenness of his memory.

  “I think about every soul who has taken my blood, Jordin. They are forever bound to me. And some day their number will be more than I can count. I worry that I can’t know them all.” His eyes were misted as he said it. “What if I lose track?”

  Or perhaps it was with those words and those tears that she’d fallen for him.

  Now that same young man rode into town on his horse with a boy behind him, face turned against Jonathan’s back, white fingers clutching his waist. Her Sovereign whom she loved more than her own life was bringing a Corpse among the Mortals. One whose name he would never forget.

  He stopped adjacent to the steps to the temple ruins, ten paces from a loosely formed arc of expectant observers. Maro took two steps forward and stopped. Roland’s cousin was dark haired, hook-nosed, and famous for his notched arrows that screamed when put to flight.

  Silence stood between them. The horse twitched its plaited tail, oblivious.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Maro finally said.

  “His name is Keenan,” Jonathan said. “He needs our help.”

  Jordin eased forward and placed herself just back and off of Maro’s right shoulder, bothered already by the warrior’s tone. Behind Jonathan, Keenan had lifted his shaggy blond head and begun to stare fearfully about him.

  “He’s a Corpse,” Maro said evenly. “Bringing a Corpse into our perimeter is strictly forbidden.”